I und’standed why Meronym’d not said the hole true ’bout Prescience Isle an’ her tribe too. People b’lief the world is built so an’ tellin ’em it ain’t so caves the roofs on their heads’n’maybe yours.
Old Ma Yibber spread the news that the Zachry what came down off Mauna Kea weren’t the same Zachry what’d gone up, an’ true ’nuff I s’pose, there ain’t no journey what don’t change you some. My cuz Kobbery ’fessed that mas’n’pas thru the Nine Valleys was warnin’ their daughters ’gainst frolickin’ with Zachry o’ Bailey’s ’cos they reck’ned I must o’ bis’nessed with Old Georgie to ’scape that shrieky place with my soul still in my skull, an’ tho’ that weren’t the hole true, it weren’t the hole wrong. Jonas’n’Sussy din’t mick with me like they once did. But Ma got weepy to see us home an’ hugged me—My little Zachaman—an’ my goats was gladsome an’ Catkin din’t change none. She’n’her bros at the school’ry’d made a new game, Zachryn’Meronym on Mauna Kea, but Abbess say-soed ’em not to ’cos times are pretendin’ can bend bein’. A whoah game it was, said Catkin, but I din’t want to know its rules nor endin’.
By’n’by Meronym’s last moon in Nine Valleys swelled up, an’ time it was for the Honokaa Barter, the biggest gath’rin’ o’ Windward peoples, jus’ once a year it comed round under the harvest moon, so for many days we was hard at work loomin’ goatwool blankies what was our dwellin’s bestest bart’rin’. Now, since my pa’s killin’ we’d trekked to Honokaa in groups o’ ten or more, but that year there was twice that number ’cos o’ the spesh Prescient loot we’d got, thanks to us hostin’ Meronym. There was handcarts an’ pack mules for all the dried meat’n’leather’n’cheese’n’wool. Wimoway’n’Roses was goin’ to trade herbs what din’t grow near the Valleys, tho’ Roses’n’Kobbery was spoonyin’ by then an’ that was fine by me. I wished my cuz luck ’cos luck he’d need an’ a whip’n’iron back’n’all.
Crossin’ Sloosha’s Crossin’ I’d to bear watchin’ journeyers put fresh stones on Pa’s mound, so our custom was my pa’d got a bucket o’ friends’n’bros what loved him truesome. Up on Mauna Kea that devil was sharp’nin’ his nails on a whetstone to feast on this cowardy liar, yay. After Sloosha’s came the zigzag up to Kuikuihaele. One handcart busted’n’tipped so slow’n’thirstsome goin’ it was, yay, noon was long gone b’fore we reached the scraggy hamlet sittin’ up the far side. Us young uns shimmed the cokeynut trees for grinds, an’ ev’ryun welcomed that milk, no frettin’. Trampin’ southly the buckin’ Old-Un way t’ward Honokaa Town, the ocean breeze turned freshly an’ our spirits was mended so we telled yarnies to shrink the miles, with the yarner sittin’ backwards on the leadin’ ass so ev’ryun could hear. Rod’rick yarned the Tale o’ Rudolf the Red-Ringed Goat Thief an’ Iron Billy’s Hideous Spiker, an’ Wolt sang a spoony song, “O Sally o’ the Valleys-o,” tho’ we pelted him with sticks ’cos his singin’ busted that liltsome tune. Then Unc’ Bees asked Meronym to teach us a Prescient yarnie. She hes’tated a beat or two an’ said Prescience tales was drippin’ with regret’n’loss an’ not good augurin’ for a sunny aft’noon b’fore Barter Day, but she could tell us a yarn what she’d heard from a burntlander in a far-far spot named Panama. We all yaysayed, so up she sat on the lead ass an’ a short’n’sweet yarn she spoke what I’ll tell you now so all you shut up, sit still an’ someun fetch me a fresh cup o’ spirit-brew, my throat’s gluey’n’parched.
Back when the Fall was fallin’, humans f’got the makin’ o’ fire. Oh, diresome bad things was gettin’, yay. Come night, folks cudn’t see nothin’, come winter they cudn’t warm nothin’, come mornin’ they cudn’t roast nothin’. So the tribe went to Wise Man an’ asked, Wise Man, help us, see we f’got the makin’ o’ fire, an’, oh, woe is us an’ all.
So Wise Man summ’ned Crow an’ say-soed him these words: Fly across the crazed’n’jiffyin’ ocean to the Mighty Volcano, an’ on its foresty slopes, find a long stick. Pick up that stick in your beak an’ fly into that Mighty Volcano’s mouth an’ dip it in the lake o’ flames what bubble’n’spit in that fiery place. Then bring the burnin’ stick back here to Panama so humans’ll mem’ry fire once more an’ mem’ry back its makin’.
Crow obeyed the Wise Man’s say-so, an’ flew over this crazed’n’jiffyin’ ocean until he saw the Mighty Volcano smokin’ in the near-far. He spiraled down onto its foresty slopes, nibbed some gooseb’ries, gulped of a chilly spring, rested his tired wings a beat, then sivvied round for a long stick o’ pine. A one, a two, a three an’ up Crow flew, stick in his beak, an’ plop down the sulf’ry mouth o’ the Mighty Volcano that gutsy bird dropped, yay, swoopin’ out of his dive at the last beat, draggin’ that stick o’ pine thru the melty fire, whooo-ooo-ooosh, it flamed! Up’n’out o’ that Crow flew from the scorchin’ mouth, now flew with that burnin’ stick in his mouth, yay, toward home he headed, wings poundin’, stick burnin’, days passin’, hail slingin’, clouds black’nin’, oh, fire lickin’ up that stick, eyes smokin’, feathers crispin’, beak burnin’ … It hurts! Crow crawed. It hurts! Now, did he drop that stick or din’t he? Do we mem’ry the makin’ o’ fire or don’t we?
See now, said Meronym, riding backwards on that lead ass, it ain’t ’bout Crows or fire, it’s ’bout how we humans got our spirit.
I don’t say that yarn’s got a hole sack o’ sense, but I always mem’ried it, an’ times are less sense is more sense. Anyhow, the day was dyin’ in soddy clouds an’ we was still some miles shy o’ Honokaa, so we tented up for the night an’ throwed dice for watch, see, times was bad an’ we din’t want to risk no ambush. I got a six’n’six so maybe my luck was healin’, so I thinked, fool o’ fate what I am, yay, what we all are.
Honokaa was the bustlin’est town o’ noreast Windward, see, Old Uns’d builded it high ’nuff to s’vive the risin’ ocean, not like half o’ Hilo nor Kona neither, what was flooded most moons. Honokaa men was traders’n’makers mostly, oh they worshiped Sonmi but they divvied their chances slywise an’ worshiped Hilo gods too so we Valleysmen reck’ned ’em half savages. Their chief was called Senator, he’d got more power’n our Abbess, yay, he’d got an army o’ ten–fifteen knuckly men with whoah spikers whose job was to force Senator’s say-so, an’ no un chose Senator, nay, it was a barb’ric pa-to-son bis’ness. Honokaa was a fair midway for Hilo’n’Honomu folks, an’ Valleysmen’n’Mookini b’fore they was slaved, an’ the hill tribes upcountry. The town’s Old-Un walls was rebuilded fresh an’ blown-off roofs mended over’n’over, but you could still strolly round its narrow’n’windy streets an’ ’magin’ flyin’ kayaks an’ no-horse carts wheelyin’ here’n’there. Last there was the bart’rin’ hall, a whoah spacy buildin’ what Abbess said was once named church where an ancient god was worshiped, but the knowin’ of that god was lost in the Fall. Church’d got strong walls an’ beautsome colored glass an’ sat in a lushly green space with lots o’ stone slabs for pennin’ sheep’n’goats’n’pigs’n’all. Durin’ the barter, Senator’s guards manned the town gates an’ storehouses an’ they’d got a lockup too with iron bars. No armyman never knucklied no trader tho’, not unless he thiefed or busted peace or law. Honokaa’d got more law’n anyplace else on Big Isle ’cept the Nine Folded Valleys I s’pose, tho’ law an’ Civ’lize ain’t always the same, nay, see Kona got Kona law but they ain’t got one flea o’ Civ’lize.
That bart’rin’, we Valleysmen did a whoah good trade for ourselves an’ the Commons. Twenty sacks o’ rice from the hill tribes we got for the Prescient tarps, yay, an’ cows’n’hides from Parker’s Ranch for the metalwork. We telled no un ’bout Meronym bein’ an’ offlander, nay, we named her Ottery o’ Hermit Dwellin’ from upgulch Pololu Valley, Ottery was a herb’list an’ a lucky freakbirth, we said, to ’splain her black skin an’ white tooths. The Prescients’ gear we said was new salvage we’d finded in a stashed hideynick, tho’ no un ever asks So where’d you get this gear? an’ s’pects to hear a truesome answer. Old Ma Yibber keeps her slurryful
mouth corked outside Nine Valleys, so when a storyman named Lyons asked me if I was the same Zachry o’ Elepaio Valley what’d climbed Mauna Kea last moon, I was diresome s’prised. Yay, said I, I’m Zachry o’ that Valley, but I don’t hate this life so much I’d go anywhere near the roof o’ that mountain, nay. I said I’d gone huntin’ presh leafs’n’roots with my last-life Aunt Ottery, but we din’t go no higher’n where the trees stopped, nay, an’ if he’d heard diff’rent, well, I were here tellin’ him he’d heard wrong. Lyons’s words was friendsome ’nuff, but when my bro Harrit telled me he’d seen Lyons’n’Beardy Leary mutt’rin’ down a smoky dead end I reck’ned I’d tell-tale him to Abbess when we got home an’ see what she thinked. A rat’s ass tang I’d always smelled comin’ off Leary, an’ I’d be findin’ in jus’ a bunch o’ hours how, oh, how right I was.
Meronym’n’me bartered off our goatwool spinnin’s’n’blankies’n’all pretty soon on, yay, I got a sack o’ fine Manuka coffee, some plastic pipin’ in fine nick, fat oats an’ bags o’ raisins from a dark Kolekole girl, an’ more gear too what I don’t mem’ry now. Kolekole folk ain’t so savage I reck’n tho’ they bury their dead uns b’neath them same longhouses where the livin’ dwell ’cos they b’lief they’ll be less lonesome there. Then I helped with our Commons barter for a beat or two then strolled here’n’there, howzittin’ with some traders from round’bouts, savages ain’t always bad folks, nay. I learned the Mackenzymen’d dreamed up a shark god an’ was sac’ficin’ bladed ’n’footless sheeps into their bay. Usual tales I heard too ’bout Kona rowdy-in’s eastly o’ their normal huntin’ grounds what shadowed all our hearts’n’minds. A crowd o’ watchers I finded gatherin’ round someun, nustlied nearer an’ seen Meronym, or Ottery, sittin’ on a stool an’ sketchin’ people’s faces, yay! She bartered her sketchin’s for trinklety doodahs or a bite o’ grinds, an’ folks was gleesomer’n anythin’, watchin’ with ’mazement as their faces ’ppeared from nowhere onto paper, an’ more folks clustered sayin’, Do me next! Do me next! Folks asked her where she’d got that learnin’ an’ her answer was always It ain’t learnin’, bro, jus’ practice is all. Uglies she gived more beautsome’n their faces’d got, but artists’d done so all down hist’ry so Ottery the Sketchin’ Herb’list said. Yay, when it came to faces, pretty lies was better’n scabbin’ true.
Night fell an’ we tromped back to our stores an’ drawed lots for sentryin’, then partyin’ began in spesh dwellin’s named bars. I did my sentryin’ early on, then showed Meronym some places with Wolt an’ Unc’ Bees b’fore the musickers drawed us back to Church. A squeezywheezy an’ banjos an’ catfish fiddlers an’ a presh rare steel guitar there was, an’ barrels o’ liquor what each tribe bringed to show their richness an’ sacks o’ blissweed ’cos where there’s Hilo, oh, there’s blissweed. I skanked deep on Wolt’s pipe an’ four days’ march from our free Windward to Kona Leeward seemed like four mil’yun, yay, babbybies o’ blissweed cradled me that night, then the drummin’ started up, see ev’ry tribe had its own drums. Foday o’ Lotus Pond Dwellin’ an’ two–three Valleysmen played goatskin’n’pingwood tom-toms, an’ Hilo beardies thumped their flumfy-flumfy drums an’ a Honokaa fam’ly beat their sash-krrangers an’ Honomu folk got their shell-shakers an’ this whoah feastin’ o’ drums twanged the young uns’ joystrings an’ mine too, yay, an’ blissweed’ll lead you b’tween the whack-crack an’ boom-doom an’ pan-pin-pon till we dancers was hoofs thuddin’ an’ blood pumpin’ an’ years passin’ an’ ev’ry drumbeat one more life shedded off of me, yay, I glimpsed all the lifes my soul ever was till far-far back b’fore the Fall, yay, glimpsed from a gallopin’ horse in a hurrycane, but I cudn’t describe ’em ’cos there ain’t the words no more but well I mem’ry that dark Kolekole girl with her tribe’s tattoo, yay, she was a saplin’ bendin’ an’ I was that hurrycane, I blowed her she bent, I blowed harder she bent harder an’ closer, then I was Crow’s wings beatin’ an’ she was the flames lickin’ an’ when the Kolekole saplin’ wrapped her willowy fingers around my neck, her eyes was quartzin’ and she murmed in my ear, Yay, I will, again, an’ yay, we will, again.
Get up now, boy, my pa biffed me anxsome, this ain’t no mornin’ for slug-gybeddin’, cuss you. That bubbly dream popped an’ I waked proper under itchy Kolekole blankies. The dark girl’n’me was twined, yay, like a pair o’ oily lizards swallowin’ each other. She smelled o’ vines’n’lava ash an’ her olive breasts rose’n’fell an’ watchin’ her I got the tenderlies like she was my own babbit slumb’rin’ by me. Blissweed was foggin’ me still, an’ I heard near-far shouts o’ wild partyin’ tho’ a misty dawn was ’ready up, yay, it happens so at harvest barterin’s, times are. So I yawned’n’stretched, yay, achin’n’feelin’ all good’n’scooped, y’know how it is when you shoot up a beautsome girl. Smoky brekkers was bein’ cooked nearby, so I put on my pants’n’jacket’n’all an’ the Kolekole girl’s eyes opened fawny an’ she murmed, Mornin’, goatman, an’ I laughed an’ said, I’ll be back with grinds, an’ she din’t b’lief me so I settled I’d prove her wrong an’ see her smile when I bringed her brekker. Outside the Kolekole storehouse was a cobbly track runnin’ by the Town Wall, but northly or southly I din’t cogg, so I was puzzlin’ my path there when a Honokaa guard dropped from the rampart an’ missed killin’ me by inches.
My guts shot half up an’ half down.
A crossbolt shaft stuck out his nose an’ its point thru the back o’ his head. Its iron point jolted that mornin’ an’ ev’rythin’ into, oh, its horrorsome place.
That near-far wild partyin’ were battlin’n’fightin’, yay! That smokin’ brekker was thatch burnin’, yay! Now my first thinkin’ was my people, so I backrabbited t’ward the Valleysmen’s store in the town hub shoutin’, Kona! Kona! Yay, the dark wings o’ that dreadsome word beat furyin’ thru Honokaa an’ I heard a thund’ry splint’rin’ an’ a diresome shout kicked up an’ I cogged the town gate was busted down. Now I got to the square, but whackaboom panickin’ blocked my way an’ fear, yay, fear an’ its hot stink turned me back. I roundybouted the narrow roads, but nearer’n’nearer Kona roars an’ horses an’ bullwhips came, fillin’ them misty’n’burnin’ alleys like a tsunami an’ I din’t know what way I’d come nor was goin’ an’ ker-bam! I got shoved into the gutter by a milk-eyed old ma clubbin’ thin air with a roller pin bansheein’, You’ll never lay your filthsome hands on me, but when I got up again she was still’n’pale, see, she’d got a crossbolt blossomin’ her bosom an’ suddenwise whoah a whip binded my legs t’gether an’ whoah up I flew an’ whoah down my head dropped an’ aieee the pavestones smashed my skull, yay, fiercer’n a chop from a cold dammit chisel.
When I waked next my young body was an old bucket o’ pain, yay, my knees was busted an’ one elbow stiff’n’bruised an’ my ribs chipped an’ two teeth gone an’ my jaws din’t fit no more an’ that lump on my head was like a second head. I was hooded like a goat b’fore slaught’rin’ an’ my hands’n’feet binded cruelsome an’ laid flat on’n’under other sorrysome bodies, yay, I hurt like I’d never knowed b’fore nor since, nay! Cartwheels was groanin’ an’ iron shoes clip-cloppin’ an’ with each sway pain sloshed round my skull.
Well, there weren’t no myst’ry. We was bein’ slaved an’ carted back to Kona jus’ like my lost bro Adam. I weren’t speshly gladsome at livin’ still, I weren’t nothin’ jus’ achin’ an’ helpless as a strung-up lardbird bein’ bled from a hook. A squirmin’ foot squashed my balls, so I murmed, Anyun else awake here? See, I thinked I may yet manage to rabbit out o’ that hole, but a rook-raw Kona voice yelled jus’ inches away, Shut your mouths, my strappin’ lads, or I vow on my blade I’ll slit the tongues from ev’ry last dingo-shat one o’ you! A warm wet quilted my arm, as someun lyin’ on me pissed, what cooled to a chill wet as beats went by. I counted five Kona speakin’, three horses, an’ a cage o’ chicklin’s. Our slavers was discussin’ the girls what they’d torn open’n’shooted up durin’ the Honokaa raid, so
I knowed I’d been hooded half the day or more. I din’t have no hungry but, oh, I was thirsty as hot ash. One o’ the Kona voices I cogged but I din’t see how. Ev’ry long beat’d bring a thund’rin’ o’ war hoofs ’long the road an’ there’d be a Howzit, Captain! an’ a Yay, sir an’ The battlin’ goes well! an’ so I learned the Kona’d not made jus’ a reccyin’ raid on Honokaa but was seizin’ the hole o’ northly Big I, yay, an’ that meant the Valleys. My Nine Folded Valleys. Sonmi, I prayed, Mercysome Sonmi, minder my fam’ly’n’kin.
Fin’ly sleep dragged me off an’ I dreamed o’ the Kolekole girl, but her breasts’n’flank was made o’ snow’n’lava rock, an’ when I waked in that cart again I found a died slave under me was suckin’ all the warmness out o’ me. I shouted, Hey, Kona, you got a died un here an’ maybe your cart horse’d thank you to lose some draggin’ heavy. A boy on top o’ me yelped as the Kona driver whipflicked him to reward him for my oh-so-kindly consid’ration, he was the pisser maybe. I knowed by the birds’ lilts evenin’ was near, yay, an’ all day we’d been carted.
A long beat later we stopped an’ off that cart I was hauled an’ pricked by a spiker. I yelled an’ wrigglied, heard a Kona say, This un’s still livin’ anyhow, an’ was lifted off’n’leaned ’gainst a hut-size rock, an’ after a beat my hood was taken off. I sat up an’ squinted in the mournsome dim. We was on the drizzly Waimea Track, an’ I cogged ’zactly where, yay, see it was by the slopin’ pond an’ that hut-size rock we was leaned against was the selfsame rock where Meronym’n’me’d meeted Old Yanagi jus’ a moon ago.
Now I watched the Kona sling away three died slaves for the dingos’n’ravens, an’ I knowed why I’d cogged a fam’liar voice b’fore, see one of our capturers was Lyons the storyman bro o’ Leary. Storyman an’ spyer, may Old Georgie cuss his bones. There was no Valleysmen ’cept me in the s’vivin’ ten, nay, mostly Honomu’n’ Hawi I reck’ned. I prayed one o’ the slinged three wasn’t Kobbery my cuz. All of us was young men, yay, so they’d killed the older uns back in Honokaa, I s’posed, Meronym too, I reck’ned, ’cos I knowed she cudn’t s’vive nor ’scape such a furyin’ attack. One o’ the Kona poured a slug o’ pond water on our faces, we opened our mouths for ev’ry brackish drop but it weren’t ’nuff to damp our parchin’. The chief say-soed their horse boy to tent up an’ then spoke to his trembly catches. Since this mornin’, said the painted buggah, your lifes, yay, your bodies are Kona b’longin’s, an the sooner you accept this, the likelier you’ll s’vive as a slave o’ the true inheritors o’ Big I an’ one day Hole Ha-Why. Chief telled us our new lifes’d got new rules, but luck’ly the rules was easy learnin’. First rule is, slaves do your Kona masters’ say-so, quicksharp an’ no but-whyin’. Bust this rule an’ your master’ll bust you a bit, or a lot, d’pends on his will, till you learn better obeyin’. Second rule is, slaves don’t speak ’cept when your master asks ’em. Bust this rule an’ your master’ll slit your tongue an’ I will too. Third rule is, you don’t waste no time plottin’ scapes. When you’re sold next moon you’ll be branded on your cheeks with your master’s mark. You’ll never pass for pureblood Kona ’cos you ain’t, true-be-telled all Windwards are freakbirthed shits. Bust this rule an’ I vow it, when you’re catched your master’ll blade off your hands an’ feet, blade off your cock to gag your mouth, an’ leave you by the wayside for the flies’n’rats feastin’. Sounds like a quick death you may think, but I done it sev’ral times an’ s’prisin’ slowsome it is, b’lief me. Chief said all good masters kill a bad or idlin’ slave now’n’then to mem’ry the others what happens to slackers. Last, he asked if there was any complainers.
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