“Maybe.” Ka’emu pointed toward the pig handlers’ shack. “Rarapa says it’s probably too late to eat him. It would send the herd into a frenzy if their ‘guardian’ disappeared.”
“We can send the herd into a frenzy right now.” Qaffa mummed jumping into the thick of things and received a laugh from her friend. Bracing herself against the pen with one arm, she reached into her bag and withdrew a candle.
“What is that for?” Ka’emu voiced her usual hesitancy toward the foreign magic.
“I think it might be able to help my leg.”
“I thought you didn’t like using it.”
Qaffa waved a hand in frustration, unsure how to explain the contradiction that dwelt within. “Yeah, well I don’t like having a broken leg either.”
She tipped a paring of tuuaaq into her mouth, then fumbled with firemoss until the wick caught flame. She watched the orange gnaw at the air as she waited for the narwhal tusk to ripple in her blood. When its call rang her fabric like the setting sun igniting clouds in vermillion magmata, she hesitated.
If she pressed on, she would stray further from her mother than ever she had. Though she may live in a foreign land, it was always her dole to return to the ice. But here she poised to wander into a foreign land of the heart, and who could say whether the path back could be conquered?
Qaffa forced a bridge between the tuuaaq in her body and the tuuaaq in her hand. The air chilled. Ka’emu backed away. Like a lush landscape painted on a dying leaf, the blue flame’s beauty was hedged in the melancholy of its impermanence and the decay over which it glossed. But beauty it had, nonetheless. Qaffa swallowed at something in her throat and faced the herd.
She had already selected her target twenty paces back. A pink beast of medium stature with a brown blotch marking its left flank. She had never learned its name. Not that that would matter. It would be fine. At worst, it would have a broken leg. At worst.
Two weeks with the orange flame? Make that two minutes with the blue.
She reached out with the power of the flame and began a work that, between her father, her mother, and herself, would only make her father proud. The pig squealed and darted around the pen, fomenting bedlam until it collapsed. A sinew of euphoria entered her—where precisely she couldn’t tell—and streamed into her leg. Chip by chip, the damages redressed themselves. A laugh escaped her lips, elatedly blind to the pig's malforming legs. Ka’emu spoke some reproof, but Qaffa had no ears for her.
When finally her leg called no more for draughts from health’s sweet cup, she doused the flame and her connection died. With a boundless smile across her face, she reached down, unwrapped the brace, and settled weight onto her leg. In her joy, she laughed and awarded herself a frolic, a gambol, and then a skip.
“It worked! I can’t believe I did it.” She bounced over to Ka’emu and took her by the shoulders. “Let’s go play somewhere else.”
“Uh, Qaffa?”
The daughter of the ice finally noticed that her enthusiasm didn’t echo in her friend. Qaffa’s spirits tinted a shade darker. “What is it?”
Ka’emu pointed to the victim mired in squalor and injury. Qaffa took in the beast’s crooked legs. Not leg. All four had ambiguated in direction and color, a spew of entropy where order once had stood. The animal wheezed as it lay on its side. Qaffa pressed a hand against her mouth.
“I didn’t think… It wasn’t supposed to be like that. It was supposed to be just one leg.” Tears threatened to wash away her joy. Had her father said something about this? To gain a finger, you must take a hand. It was too difficult to remember all his teachings, especially when most were filtered through dreams.
Ka’emu touched her on the arm. “We should leave. Before anyone sees us here.”
Qaffa nodded and they ran, but the running had lost its savor.
24
Qaffanngilaq
4 Years Before
Qaffanngilaq climbed onto a black nose of a rock hooking out above the surf and fussed until her bottom found a comfortable perch. Terror overtook her momentarily as she found an unreasonably rotund saltwater millipede taking up an arm’s length of rock next to her. After an undignified screech and flinging of the worm into the sea, she looked ahead at the man whose head bobbed atop the water and gave a gawky grin.
“Greetings, Qaffa,” he said.
“Hello, Puneki.” She pushed a clump of hair behind her ear. “How are you?”
The man looked down to his arms, each of which were anchored fast to king-size stones on the ocean floor far below. “Bad. And you?”
“Oh, good. Just good. They still feed you?”
“No, I have to catch fish with my toes and hope I can eat it without any sharks catching the scent,” he joked.
“Why don’t you kick the sharks and eat them too?”
“There are too many, and I’ve never been much of a dancer.”
Qaffa giggled. Something about the prisoner always captivated her. Probably the puzzle of how he could be bound for years in the ocean and maintain levity.
“So,” said Puneki. “It’s been too long since your last visit. I lose track of time so easy out here. What are you now, twenty-eight?”
“I’m thirteen!” She kicked at the water.
“It hasn’t been fifteen years? Strange. Feels like at least twenty.” He let his legs float up so he lay on his back, arms stretched into what must be a painful position. “What brings you out here? Couldn’t resist my charming stories for one second more? You’ve brought a knife and are finally going to free me?”
“Ka’emu is supposed to come back from the ice today. This is the closest spot to see the ship coming up.” She had spent plenty of daydreaming time spinning iterations of her reunion with her friend after more than a month below.
“Oh, so I’m just an eyesore marring your beautiful ocean view, is it?” Puneki spat an arc of water across his torso.
“Well… I was also maybe wondering if you could tell me ‘The Heavenbound King' again.” She put her hands together in supplication.
The prisoner barked a laugh. “You and that island. There are other stories, you know.”
“But none of them are as fun.”
“You mean, ‘None of them feed my irrational obsession with Ragaka’i.’”
She smiled her fakest smile. “Wow, Puneki, you are so insightful. I wonder how many insights I would learn if you told me ‘The Heavenbound King.’”
“You didn’t even bring a storyteller’s mask for me to wear.” He heaved a sigh and shook his head, but a smile trickled across his lips. “Just for you, girl, I will take some time out of my inundated schedule and tell you the tale, yet again.”
Qaffa squealed a vote of affirmation, followed by a shriller sound as she noticed the millipede tessellating its way up the rock again. Taking out a candle and sucking away its life tempted her, insidious little creature. She instead dispatched it with an overhand pitch, farther this time, wiped off her hands, and turned her attention to the prisoner.
“In this wide ocean, man may set foot on any island save two. Ragaka’i and Nanaka’i, the havens of the dead. The only islands that sit before the wall of cloud that reaches into heaven. As has been known for thousands of years, if you live a good life, your spirit will enter your moai when you die. Carve well your moai, for in life we may wear masks for any occasion, but in death you wear one mask alone. If your moai face is shown love and given arms and legs, you become a pa’ina, to walk as though alive. But what good is it for the dead to walk among the living? The dead cannot understand the living, for they are dead, and the living cannot understand the dead, for they are living. No, in this it is wisdom that they are sent to an island of their own.
“But restless are the dead, for they cannot sleep. In their itching unrest, they tilt back their stone faces and gaze into the holy heights. The garden of gods where every spirit yearns to roam. Yet how can the common dead from Nanaka’i surmount the skies? They cannot jump as tall as a man,
let alone summit the uppermost cloud. If you served under a good king, he will await you on Ragaka’i, and you can ride to heaven upon his back when he jumps. So, the common dead build their boats and make the pilgrimage to the isle of dead kings. Serve well your king, for in life you may be mischievous and slothful, but in death you will be banished back to Nanaka’i.
“There was once a man named Hokoho, a friend of seven kings. A man dissatisfied with the idea of waiting till death to find heaven. He wanted to see it in the flesh, not in the stone. But none of the other leaders knew that he himself was a king, for Hokoho played the beggar with the battered boat. The metanesial vagabond, sailing from isle to isle in search of an impossible goal. The tattoos that wrapped his body were not so extravagant as a typical king, so most assumed him a disgraced matatoa, wounded in some clash to never fight again. But Hokoho wasn’t disgraced. Not yet.
“Only the eldest kings did he befriend. Before them in their courts he came, knelt in panting obeisance, and proclaimed, ‘Ariki, oldest and wisest of kings, I come before you today to pray for wisdom that only you can give. I, Hokoho, have lost my moai and cannot go to heaven. What might I do to leap above the clouds?’
“Many years he presented himself, and the kings came to endure his petitions with fondness. In a world where they had to answer for sickness and hunger and war, what was one battle-addled matatoa with an innocent question? Many answers they gave, and always he answered the same. ‘Thank you, Ariki. Your wisdom is great. I will think on this.’
“One by one, the venerated kings went the way of all bodies and their moai were taken to Ragaka’i. After each had passed, Hokoho made secret journey to that island of dead kings. He found their moai peeking out of the ground and made his recitation once more. ‘Ariki, oldest and wisest of kings, I come before you today to pray for a boon that only you can give. I, Hokoho, have lost my moai and cannot go to heaven. May I ride with you when you jump above the clouds?’
“Every time the answer was the same. ‘Hokoho. What you ask is no boon. The land above the clouds is not for the eyes of the living. I will not carry you to heaven.’ Every time, anger burned within Hokoho’s heart, but he gave the same answer. ‘Thank you, Ariki. Your wisdom is great. I will think on this.’
“With every passing king his desperation grew. The new kings were too young and would outlive him. If he couldn’t achieve this, he would be locked in stone forever like the rest of them.
“Finally, the day came when the seventh king died, and Hokoho followed his funeral catamaran to Ragaka’i. He waited a day and a night and a day as the honor guard half buried their former king’s moai, then rushed forward as soon as they were small on the horizon. Once more, he posed his question.
“The seventh king waited as patiently as only a stone could, then made his reply. ‘Hokoho. What you ask is no boon. The land above the clouds is not for the eyes of the living. Yet all these years have I known you, and you have asked but one question that all yearn for in their stomachs. I will tell you not to go, but if you ask once more, I will permit it.’
“Burning this time with elation, Hokoho spoke his question for the final time. ‘May I ride with you when you jump above the clouds?’
“‘You may. I will jump in five years, when more of my subjects are with me.’
“Five years to the day, Hokoho beached his boat on Ragaka’i and ran to his heavenbound friend. Around the massive moai scuttled thousands of knee-high pa’ina, all jostling for the choicest spots. Upon Hokoho’s approach, the ground began to rumble. The king began to stand. With a yank and a tug, the seventh king pulled great arms of soil and stone from the earth. Those braced against the ground and pushed out a body, and soon legs kicked to the surface. Hokoho gawked at the colossus, well taller than twenty men. The small pa’ina went into a frenzy, clambering all over their erstwhile king.
“When they had more or less sorted themselves out, the massive pa’ina stooped down and held out a hand. ‘You may turn back now, Hokoho,’ he said.
“‘No, Ariki,’ answered Hokoho. ‘I have lost my moai and cannot get to heaven. I must ride with you when you jump above the clouds.’
“‘Very well.’ The king lifted him up, then great knees were bowing. Hokoho looked up the wall of clouds that stretched without end. Could this massive pa’ina really scale that in a single bound? Judging by the lack of other kingly moai on the island, he supposed it must.
“The giant pa’ina of the king released its energy and jetted into the sky. The clouds passed by like he was falling into a dream. The wind picked at his face. Darkness crept across his vision. But for the first time in years, Hokoho was happy. Before the heavenbound kings reached their summit, blackness took Hokoho entirely.
“When next he woke, he heard joyous sounds. A rapturous commotion abounded around him. Quickly he opened his eyes to see. All he saw was darkness. Again and again he tried, but the black would not dissipate. Hokoho was blind.
“He cried out, adding a single, mournful keening to the gaiety all about. A voice broke into his weeping.
“‘Hokoho, why do you cry?’ It was the seventh king.
“‘Ariki, oldest and wisest of kings. I, Hokoho, have lost my eyes and cannot see heaven. What shall I do that I might see?’
“Great sorrow lay upon the seventh king’s voice when he spoke. ‘Oh, Hokoho. I tried to warn you. The land above the clouds is not for the eyes of the living. You are permitted to stay, but you may not enjoy.’
“Bitter tears spilt from Hokoho’s dark eyes. He chased back and forth, seeking the joyous sounds but never drawing any nearer. A gleeful exclamation, a bubbly laugh. He stumbled forward, fingers grasping at nothing. As he staggered toward a merry commotion, his foot stepped onto thin air and he found himself falling. Heels, head, heels, head, over and over until consciousness left him.
“He awoke to the slosh of waves around his ears, sand in his nostrils, and darkness still in his eyes. After a few minutes of blundering around, he realized he was back on Ragaka’i. He eventually found his ship again and set sail to find his home islands. It is said that if you come across a blind man sailing the open sea, you must sail away as quickly as you can. For if you look into his eyes, you will see things not for the living and fall blind into the ocean.”
Qaffanngilaq basked in the ambiance of the story’s end, quivering slightly at the thought of finding a lone boat bouncing on the open sea, manned only by a man who cast eternal darkness wherever his gaze landed. She wondered if perchance she found the fallen king, could she take the blindness from him? Were those the types of things one could siphon off with tuuaaq? She’d have to ask her father.
She thanked Puneki for the tale. Then, as always, she asked, “What did you do to end up a prisoner here?”
And as always, he replied, “I capsized heaven.”
“But no one else has seen it fall. I’ve asked.”
“Well. I capsized someone’s heaven,” he said into the surf.
The timeworn answer slid off her. She had always assumed him a murderer, evinced by the heavy tattooing marking him as a matatoa high of rank, but she needed more clues. She set herself a different tack. “Did you have a good life before you did whatever it was that landed you here?”
Puneki doused his face in water. “Very. But I fear I could only learn that by coming here. I was never satisfied with the thought that all the little days that came and went, those were life. I reached for more and more, and by degrees, life became the reaching. Greatness, I knew, lay behind the teeth of the hound, within the caverns of the shallows, beyond the hiss of the moon. With time, reaching came perilously close to grabbing, and fear distilled in the souls of mighty men regardful of my rise. They, too, turned their lives to reaching—reaching for me. Before I could grab, I was grabbed. Cast low. Bound. Punished for aspiring to be more.”
She stared at his inked face for a blink’s space. “That’s it? I don’t think you actually told me anything. My father said, ‘There are those who tel
l a thousand truths with but a single lie, and those who tell a thousand lies to hide a single truth.’ I think he was talking about you. You’re so evasive.” It was the fifth time she’d used ‘evasive’ since learning it yesterday.
He grinned and shrugged at his fetters. “Given my current position, I’d wager I’m the least evasive man in all the islands.”
Her brain toiled over a retort when a glint from the horizon speckled her eye. She pushed up to her feet and pulled a candle from her sealskin bag. “I have to go. Thank you again for the story.”
“Come back soon. Bring something to drink. We can play dice. Give each other symmetric scars. Plot against the king.”
Qaffa slipped a crumb of tuuaaq into her mouth and sparked a blue flame, its flicker difficult to discern against ocean and sky. Below it, she saw the millipede clicking its way up the rock again. Weary of the thing’s solicitations, she summarily sucked its life into her and watched its curling husk plash into the ocean.
“Well,” said Puneki. “Not something I expected to see today.”
She ignored him and stepped into the air. Her damp hair sparred with itself as she picked up speed. Phalanxes of waves marched by beneath. The boat grew in stature. Ka’emu was back! Qaffa couldn’t wait to kindle her friend’s envy recounting all her talks with the Marama prince during his weeklong visit. Or to make it known that the matatoa Rava’apa had eaten nineteen sweet potatoes before stretching his belly. Or to see what curio her parents might have shipped topside to her. Hopefully the boat’s freight included a few sticks of tuuaaq.
She reached the twin pontoon vessel and let herself down, stumbling as she made traffic with the deck. Father would have given her a stern glare for the botched landing. Mother would have given her a stern glare for the skywalking. Qaffa smiled at the crew of fifteen, reminding herself that she shouldn’t steal their memories of her graceless landing just because she was a buffoon. She should do it because she was a princess.
Orluvoq Page 28
