“Wōtto is shaped like the back side of my hand” she explained, turning the back side of the eye of her left hand toward him. “See this?” She set the fish down upon the clean stones before her and traced the inside of the cup between her left thumb and index finger with her right. “That is a lagoon-shaped reef on the northern, ocean-side edge of the islet. That’s where Lairi lived because it was the perfect spot for his favorite activity, bwilbwil.
“Every day he would make a toy proa and sail it up and down the beach, and every which way across that reef. He hardly ever ate during the day because he was so busy running around. At night, he would light pāle and club fish on the reef. Then he’d cook his catch there on the ocean side, just like we are doing now.
“There is one little islet just west of Wōtto, along the northern reef where a spirit called Likoropjen lived. She was one ugly woman. Every day, she’d watch Lairi running around the reef, making her dizzy just to watch. Maybe she was a little jealous because she could not run. Her mouth was a wind trap, and she’d trip over her ears. Anyway, one night of no moon, she watches him fishing by torch light and decides to put an end to his nonsense. When his pāle burns out, she sneaks up on him from behind.” Here, Liṃanṃan changed her voice to mimic Likoropjen’s gruff tone and chanted,
Lairi, Lairi,
kupañ club in water
next to rock.
Badet club in water
next to shore.
“Then when he turns, she asks him politely, ‘Where is your fire stick, boy?’ He answers, ‘Here, my dear!’
“Then she asks, ‘Where is your rub stick, boy?’ He answers, ‘Here, my dear!’
“Then she rubs the sticks together, chanting,
Sear stick, blow coal,
fire flame, so fear me!
Eat fire, eat stick,
eat Lairi.
Fart!
“When the fire flames, he sees how ugly she is. She is quick to eat him, but he is just as quick to escape.
“‘Where do you come from, Lairi?’
“‘But from your fart, my dear.’”
“Now Lairi has seen how ugly she is,” Ḷainjin said.
Liṃanṃan continued. “And she’s afraid he’ll start spreading rumors about her big … you know! So the next night, same as before,” she said, and by tradition, repeated the tale and the song two more times with the same exact result.
Ḷainjin interrupted. “Then, on the fourth night…”
“Some say the fifth…” Liṃanṃan said. “Anyway, she finally gets this epiphany—”
“Or maybe she just gets desperate.”
“And she starts eating rocks. In fact, she ends up eating a large chunk out of that islet…”
“And now you should see it. It’s like no other,” Ḷainjin added.
“And that night she’s after him just like before, only this time, she’s moving a little more slowly because … you know!
Lairi, Lairi,
kupañ club in water
next to rock.
Badet club in water
next to shore.
“Then when he turns, she asks him politely, ‘Where is your fire stick, boy?’
“He answers, ‘Here, my dear!’
“Then she asks, ‘Where is your rub stick, boy?’
“He answers, ‘Here, my dear!’
“Then she rubs the sticks together, chanting,
Sear stick, blow coal,
fire flame, so fear me!
Eat fire, eat stick,
eat Lairi.
Fart!
“But this time, Lairi is stuck among all those rocks she has eaten, and he can’t sneak out her butt. But he is one man who knows which way to turn. He has a shell knife stuck beneath his kilt, and he starts cutting his way out!
“So she sighs,
I eat islet,
but my stomach feels fine.
I eat Lairi.
So skinny and
bony, he looks silly.
Now my stomach hurts so-ooo…!
“He cuts and cuts and by morning, she’s dead and he’s out playing on that reef again — Lairi!”
Paratak was amused by the story, of course, and came up with the questions most children would ask.
“Why ear so long?”
“Well because, like a reef bird, she had a long neck, of course.”
“How could she eat so many rocks?”
“Well, because spirits can do all kinds of things.”
After a while, Ḷainjin left the other two to carry on discussing the silly bwebwenato. He continued along the ocean shore and then slowly, very carefully searched for the Chief in the kōņņat branches along the islet’s northern side. He belatedly returned to his boat from the opposite direction, carrying a few large kiden leaves he had torn from a branch along the way. The tide had left it stranded on the lagoon shore of the islet, far above the gentle, incessant ebb and flow of the smooth lagoon as it sloshed restfully upon the beach. Far to the west across the shimmering lagoon, he could see a white line of Kāliptak swells breaking upon the isletless reef where he and Liṃanṃan had trolled during the nights past. He could see cooking fires — too many to count — comfortingly blinking at him from the westernmost and northernmost islets of the atoll, reminding him of the immensity of the distance he had traveled out there beyond the refuge of the coral barrier now protecting him. He nostalgically retrieved the fat log of jāānkun, now nearly depleted, that had sustained his latest journey and sliced off a chunk that he cut into three pieces. Then he wrapped each piece in a leaf.
Yes, it was good to be among others, but it took such effort. The simplicity of solitude was a constant enticement to him, and the Chief’s companionship was so simple by comparison. Where was he?
“Ak! Ak!” Ḷainjin cried out, revealing only to himself the hidden reason for their trip. He inwardly feared he had irretrievably lost him during this recent, unexpected turn of events. “Ak! Ak!” he cried again, in a vain attempt to pierce the incessant chatter of the birds that were circling, landing, and flying in all directions about the islet. “What is all this clamor about?” he wondered whimsically. “Are they fighting over their places to perch? Are they calling to their mates and their children, or are they just announcing their positions to prevent collision as they swarm?” Would the terns respect and accept his friend into their community, or now that he no longer commanded the sky, would they treat him like a misfit? Could he assimilate on an islet such as this? His kind had their own islets that they returned to from birth, but Ḷainjin had eaten his parents, snatched him away, and disrupted his nature. “Nevertheless, he would be perched now, dreaming. He would be lost in his bird thoughts and unlikely to appear anyway,” he concluded. Ḷainjin had been gone a long time, and his friends were sure to wonder what he was up to.
As he approached the fire, he launched a mysterious-sounding chant that he knew would be gradually heard by the others as he closed the distance.
U-waak tak-li!
Come from west to place where
they ba-baked my son there.
They cook-cooked his soul there,
under that tree called kiden.
Kiden, what kiden?”
By the time he joined them, Liṃanṃan, still preoccupied with sucking the cheeks and the brain from the head of their catch, eagerly joined in the chorus of the famous fable. Then she began her second tale of the evening as Paratak listened, eager as a young child.
“Story of Ujae,” she began, as she tossed the inedible portion of the fish skull upon the smoldering coals of her fire. “You know, back there” — she jerked her head and pointed toward the direction of Ujae with her ear — “is one island like you have never seen, surrounded by reef. Only one narrow beach pointing toward the lagoon. The windward reef is wider than the islet, and it’s not a small islet. It’s as big as Lae. That reef is home to many octopus! Except octopus are not like here. A fish out there must be eating their arms and making t
hem stubby. You catch them just like here, by jabbing a stick down into their hole until they creep out. They say you can find the sticks of our ancestors scattered all over that reef, or at least the representation of them. They call them kina. Kin of two old women.
“They wake up one morning, and like every day when tide is low, they walk out to gather food on the reef. And one says to the other, ‘Girl, have you ever seen such a low tide?’
“That’s when the women are surprised to hear Ḷōppeipāāt answering them from the reef. He is one huge octopus!
So what, low tide!
I don’t hide!
Two of you take me,
two of you bake me,
two of you eat me!
“Woman asks him,
‘Fuel for your fire of what?’
‘But marjej,’ he answers.
‘Rock for your fire of what?’
‘But tilaan,’ he answers.
‘Leaf to cover your oven of what?’
‘But atat, of course!’
“So they take him and do as instructed, but marjej is only a weed and does not make a hot fire. Tilaan is too porous to stay hot once the flame dies, and the atat leaf is too small and thin to prevent heat from escaping. Once the fire burns down and the oven is ready, the women toss him in and cover him up. Then they gather coconuts and grate them, singing,
Kicking down coconut.
Many falling,
grating, grating.
Kicking down coconut.
Many falling,
grating, grating.
Too much than, too much than…
“They set a jāpe of grated coconut aside and sleep a bit and wait for their friend to be baked. When they estimate the time is ripe, they uncover the oven, but he is gone. He has shit in the oven and crawled away! So they take pieces of dung and eat a bit with coconut.
“Next morning, they wake up and walk, like before, to the ocean side.
“‘Girl, look how low the tide!’
“But Ḷōppeipāāt taunts them again,
So what, low tide!
I don’t hide!
Two of you take me,
two of you bake me,
two of you eat me!
True to tradition, Liṃanṃan went through the three identical episodes of the story until even Paratak could answer when she asked, “Fuel for your fire of what? Rock for your fire of what? Leaf for your oven of what?” He even joined in with the other two in the “kicking down coconuts” chorus. Then Liṃanṃan continued telling Ujae’s story.
“Finally, in the fourth episode, when Ḷōppeipāāt answers ‘marjej,’ one woman whispers to the other, ‘He’s lying, better hardwood kōñe.’ When he answers ‘tilaan,’ she says, ‘He’s lying, better dekā ajaj.’ At last, when he answers ‘atat,’ she whispers, ‘He’s lying. We’ll use wūt!’
“This time, their oven gets red hot, and he screams, ‘I burn, I burn, I burn!’
“‘Cover him,’ cries the smart one.
“‘Ah! I burn, I burn, I burn!’
“‘Cover him!’ she repeats, as they laugh and laugh and laugh and then sleep a bit while he cooks in the steaming oven. When the time is right, they uncover the oven and there he is, all red, soft, and delicious. They start to eat him with the coconut and laugh, laugh, laugh until their sides ache. Then gradually, almost imperceptibly, from a far-off edge of the reef, comes a mysterious sound of chanting…
U-waak tak-li!
U-waak tak-li!
Come from west to place where
they ba-baked my son there.
They cook-cooked his soul there,
under that tree called kiden.
Kiden, what kiden?
“One woman asks the other, ‘Girl, what is that I hear?’
“‘Nothing’ she says, ‘Keep eating. That’s just the tide coming in.’
After another two rounds of chanting in which all three participated, Ḷainjin asked Liṃanṃan, “Girl, what is that I hear?” At which point she jumped up, pointed toward the reef edge, and shouted, “There she is, the mother of the thing they baked! Paratak, run for your life!”
Paratak laughed. “Not so easy trick second time.”
“The women quickly cast lots to see where is the best place to hide. Top of pandanus tree? No. Under coconut leaf? No. Run to lagoon? No. Finally, they cast that the best place to hide is in the attic of their house. They climb up their ladder to the single entrance in the middle of the floor of their stilt house and ready their shell knives.
“When the first tentacle of the thing creeps up through the door, they cast their chant,
Arm poke through, one, two.
Saw it and saw it
and set it aside.
Arm poke through, one, two.
Saw it and saw it
and set it aside.
By tradition, Liṃanṃan went through the chorus eight times and was joined by both Ḷainjin and Paratak. All of them pretended to saw off the tentacles with their hands as they sang. Finally, she ended the story by stating that, arms spent, the thing limped back into the water, disappeared into the sea, and was not likely to return until its arms grew back — which, for a thing that size, could take hundreds of seasons.
Then Ḷainjin gave a slice of the jāānkun to Paratak first, then to Liṃanṃan. He hoped the sun-dried pandanus mash would round out their meal of just fish.
“Our ancestors called us people of the northern islands ri-bōb because we ate so much pandanus.”
“We no eat pandanus on Pohnpei. We no like,” said Paratak as he pinched off a piece of the wedge and popped it into his mouth. “Waste of time to chew. But this” — the tone of his voice was changed by the gooey substance as it clung to his teeth and the roof of his mouth — “good, no core to catch in teeth! But this good! No hair! Good for voyage! I wish I had on voyage from Pohnpei, stay more strong! True this never spoil?”
Ḷainjin bit into the gummy substance that was both tart and sweet at the same time. It reminded him of the hundreds of lonely meals he had made of it out there, and of his companion who had not shared his ability to sustain himself from it. “This is … I forget how many seasons old. It has seen sun and rain and ocean water and it’s still good. It was made and traded, then perhaps retraded by who knows who a long time ago, a long way from here.”
“Oh, we have saying,” responded Paratak. “When lips crack, you know you have drifted through Rālik, but when you drift through Ratak, you won’t know because you are dead!”
“Well, that’s — let’s say — another difference between your people and mine. Your people don’t see the wave patterns between the islands, but we do!”
“See better from eating this?” asked Paratak, curling his lips and showing the dark red substance glued to the front of his teeth.
“No,” said Ḷainjin, chuckling, “Know where the islands are because we recognize wave patterns they create in the sea.”
“I saw only misery at sea! I will never cross ocean again! I will die dry, sleeping on mat in house with children to water my lips.”
“Well,” Ḷainjin teased, “if you do return to Pohnpei, you must claim a high title with that wapepe symbol I marked on your chest.”
He reached over and traced the dark scars he had carved on the Pohnpeian’s chest with his index finger. “These represent the four swells that converge on an island in mid-ocean.”
“What island?” asked Paratak. He was stretching his neck like a preening bird to view the clean lines with which Ḷainjin had marked the symbol.
“Any island — you must imagine one. It does not appear because it is not significant compared to the immensity of the four horizons that encompass it. They are curved because they come from the four directions on the horizon surrounding the island.”
“I thought this magic to kill me!” replied Paratak, grinning with relief as he fingered his scar.
“No, not at all. My friends and I tried to explain the symbol to Raipuinla
ng too, but he did not show any interest in the navigation symbol either. I traded under that symbol and left the island after he granted me the title Jau Areu and the islet Idedh in compensation for all the dāp I caught for him. My title is there waiting for me, but I don’t care to return now that I follow this North Star, so now I give it to you!”
“Idedh? Why me?”
“Because no one knows what happened to you! Every day your father looks out at sea and wonders what happened. You must return and receive what you have accomplished.”
After a while Paratak asked, “Joke like lobster, right?”
“I’m not joking, my friend! I promise. When you appear before Raipuinlang, mention my name and show him that symbol. He must fulfill his side of our agreement and either title you or cheat on his trade and — by his own law — face the eel pit.”
“What law?” asked Liṃanṃan.
“Trade cast is last!” the men replied together in Pohnpeian.
“What does that mean?”
The Pohnpeian looked to Ḷainjin to interpret. “Like when the ri-kwōjkōj casts your fate. There is no recast. By their law, you cannot recast a trade. It is completed. It is over. All trades are final. No reneging allowed.”
The aura of suspicion on the Pohnpeian’s face began to recede gradually as he stared back at Ḷainjin in the moonlight. Ḷainjin saw he realized he was the recipient of an enforceable Pohnpeian bargain, but would he prove brave enough to accept it? He was no doubt studying the man shark, who had swum with the great men and spirits of the ocean only to show up by chance here, on this tiny, remote sandspit, to offer him a high title from his homeland. Ḷainjin could imagine the questions in Paratak’s mind.
That was when Ḷainjin reached out to him again — in Pohnpeian fashion, arm to arm — and finally found confidence in the gleaming, night-black eyes that peered back in an unexpected bond of friendship that men only rarely share.
“Paratak, it sounds like Ḷōpako has made you an aḷap,” announced Liṃanṃan.
“I hear that word before. What mean?”
“That’s one of Likōkkālọk’s titles; it is something she can carry for life and can pass to her daughters. Like a little chief with dominion over territory, she is entitled to some of whatever they bring to the high chief. It is basically the same as Pohnpeian titles — you get tribute.”
Man Shark Page 20
