by Pati Nagle
“Night is not just a symbol!” said Manuel, turning to face her. “Night is the time of rest, of replenishment—”
“On Earth, yes. In primitive societies, yes,” said Hoku, “but we’re beyond that. For centuries people have worked through the night—on Luna, on the stations, even on Earth—and still lived happy lives. There’s no need for us to huddle in darkness half the day when the sun’s light is available to us all the time.”
“If there hadn’t been a need for Night, Oporto wouldn’t have built the Focus,” said Manuel. “He wouldn’t have created Nightfall.”
“He made Nightfall for the Guests from Earth, so they would feel at home,” said Hoku. “And as for the Focus, we control the flow of light, it doesn’t control us!”
Her eyes were beautiful, full of righteousness and something else—something dangerously like pity—that stung him and made him turn away. “I don’t want to argue with you,” he said.
“No,” she agreed softly.
They sat in silence for a moment, Manuel acutely aware of the warmth of her hands on his back. He had loved her from childhood, wanted her from youth, but the Custodian and the Governor were counterparts, working together from a distance, living at opposite ends of the island, close and at the same time standing apart.
Never since the island’s creation had a Custodian and a Governor joined. It was thought that such an alliance would threaten the balance of power.
Manuel glanced at Hoku. Perhaps she was right. Oporto’s people were enlightened; perhaps endless day would enrich their lives, and it was only his selfish love of starlight that made him long for the night. If so, then the skeptics who denounced Maintenance as superstitious nonsense were justified, and the Custodian’s function was meaningless.
Except it wasn’t meaningless. It was necessary. Beneath the rituals were the foundations of the island’s vitality.
Rising abruptly, Manuel paced a few steps away. “I wish to address the Council,” he said.
“They won’t change their minds,” said Hoku.
“It is not for the Council to interpret the Manuals,” said the Custodian formally. “Their meaning requires study—years of study—for which I have been trained and the Council have not. It is my duty to advise them.” He turned to face the Governor and saw a sadness in her eyes; his words had built a wall between them.
Hoku sighed and stood. “Very well. I will inform the Council of your wish. You may address the next meeting.”
He nodded silent agreement, gazing at her with an inner ache that was all too familiar. She raised a hand to her heart in the gesture of family-love, gave him a sad little smile and turned away, her sandals whispering on the path, red robe flashing through the leaves as she left him in the sharp light of day.
~
Lehua came for Dayrise, and Manuel was both glad and sorry. He had not spoken to her since before the last Night. Hoping to resolve the conflict, hoping he could make the Council see his viewpoint, he had gone to their meetings and reminded them of Oporto’s word, which threatened dire consequences if the people failed to perform proper maintenance.
His words had disappeared like raindrops into a lake; the Council would not be convinced. His failure to reach them weighed on his spirits, and though it pleased him to see Lehua among the sparse group gathered in the Grove of Malamalama for Dayrise, he did not look forward to speaking with her.
There were only a handful of dancers this morning, and the flowers they wore were a bit brown at the edges. One musician beat out the Dayrise dance on the ipu, and Manuel chanted words of joy without much enthusiasm. It was hard praising the return of light when Malamalama was already shining brightly.
He finished the song, moved to the Focus where the Council’s Watcher stood silent guard and pantomimed shifting the great lever upward, then turned to watch the worshippers drift away. Lehua waited for him by his house, the whiteness of her hair as it brushed her shoulders making her cotton Maintenance garb seem dim.
Lehua—Chief Technician of Moku Wina, mother of Lehua and Manuel—was a grand old dame, stout as a nut and just as tough. No one cared to cross her. Manuel wished he had inherited some of her tenacity; no doubt he would have dealt better with the Council if he had.
He remembered her strong hands around his waist, lifting him up to a Maintenance shaft for the first glimpse of the systems that were his heritage. The hands were gnarled now but still strong, and she held them out to him with a smile.
“You look tired, Manny,” she said.
“It’s hard to sleep. Come inside, share my breakfast.”
Manuel held the curtain aside for his mother and followed her into his house. It was dark; he had formed the habit of keeping the windows covered. He pushed aside a curtain to let some light in, and brought cushions and fruit to Lehua.
“We haven’t seen you in Operations lately,” she said as she settled herself.
“I’ve been busy,” said Manuel, cutting slices from a ripe mango. He handed her a piece and ate one himself, let its musky sweetness fade on his tongue. “You would send for me if there was any problem.”
Lehua bit into a date and chewed slowly. “Have you been down at the Hotel?”
“Not since the last Council meeting.”
“What has kept you so busy, then?”
Manuel laid down the knife and wiped the stickiness from his hands with a napkin. “I’ve been—searching.”
“For?”
“A way to make the Council hear me. A way to....”
“To believe in what you are doing?”
Lehua’s voice was gentle, but the words cut. Manuel had never been able to hide his true feelings from her, but she had not said a word about it ever before.
Always loving, always accepting, Lehua. Now even she saw the danger that lay in his failure. He could not look into her eyes.
“What would my father have done?” he muttered.
“Your father never faced this kind of challenge.”
“You mean the Council.”
“I mean the doubt.”
He straightened and looked at her, and the pity in her eyes was worse than all the rest. Manuel hid his face in his hands, but the smell of mango clung to them, inescapable as the daylight. He got up and went to the window.
Outside children were playing tag in the ceremonial clearing, something that would never have happened when he was young. The place had lost its holiness, or the people had lost their sense of it. Or perhaps it had never been holy.
“Why did Manuel III make Maintenance into ritual?” he said angrily.
“You know why,” said Lehua. “The people were losing interest, and he feared the procedures would be forgotten. He set them to music and dance in order to preserve them.”
“He made them a religion, and now we may lose them altogether!”
“Merely because you lack faith? No, Manny. The island is more important than your personal crises.”
Like a slap in the face, the words sobered him. He turned to his mother, who sat quietly watching him.
“It seems hopeless, I know,” she said. “But you will find a solution.”
“You believe that?”
“I know it. These are good dates.” She leaned forward, helping herself to another. “Do you remember Hoku’s woman-day?”
Caught off guard, Manuel blinked. “Yes—”
“She gave you her ti lei. All the boys on the island were courting her, and she gave it to you. I see you still have it,” she said, gesturing to where the dried loop of twisted ti leaves hung from the wall above his bed.
“I don’t think—”
“She loves you, Manny. Why don’t you marry her?”
“The Governor and the Custodian can’t marry,” said Manuel, more sharply than he’d meant to.
“Can’t? I never heard that. You young people place too much importance on your functions.”
“You were just telling me my function is more important than my beliefs!”
&nb
sp; “Well, that’s true,” she said placidly, reaching for another date.
Frustrated, Manuel began to pace, the woven mats beneath his feet creaking softly. “How can I go on lying to the people I’m supposed to serve?” he demanded. “It’s hypocrisy!”
“Maintenance is not a lie, Manuel. You know that.”
“But it’s all tangled up in mythology! How can I expect the people to believe what I don’t believe myself?”
“They don’t need to believe. They need to have faith.” Lehua got up and walked to the window, where she stood watching the children outside with a soft smile. “They need to know in their hearts that they aren’t alone, that there’s a whole universe beyond the island,” she said.
“What if we are alone?” said Manuel.
“Why do you still do the Communications ritual, Manuel?” said Lehua. “We haven’t had a signal from Earth in four hundred years.”
“That doesn’t mean we’ll never get one.”
Lehua’s smile widened. “Exactly. You know we might get a signal someday. You know we are not alone. You don’t believe it, you know it.”
She turned from the window and reached out a hand to comfort him, a gesture that sent him back to boyhood. Manuel came to her and sighed as her strong arms enfolded him.
“That’s what faith is, Manny,” she said into his ear. “It’s knowing. Believing is worrying that something might not be true; faith is knowing it’s true even if you can’t see it. You’ve got faith, my son. You just have to decide in what.”
Manuel gave an exasperated laugh. “Any suggestions?”
“Yourself?”
Lehua leaned back to smile at him, then patted his shoulder and started toward the door. “I’d better get over to Operations. Akamu and Keoni keep arguing about when to reschedule rainfall.”
“Lehua—”
She stopped, and Manuel caught her hands in his, squeezing tight. “Thank you,” he said. “I hope your faith in me isn’t misplaced.”
“Of course it isn’t,” she said, kissing his cheek. “You’re Manuel.”
“It’s just a name, Mother.”
“Is it?” Lehua’s hand pulled back the curtain over the door. Light spilled in, framing her so he couldn’t see her face, setting her hair aglow. “You know, they say a Manuel once saved the Earth,” she said.
He could hear the smile in her voice, and smiled back as he watched her walk down the path to the clearing. She patted a child’s head, gestured her respect to the four shrines, and disappeared into the trees.
Manuel turned back to his empty house. The uneaten fruit lay on its plate among the cushions. He walked past it to his bed and took down the ti lei from the wall, imagining its making years before, Hoku’s pretty hands folding and twisting the long ti leaves into a supple, glistening rope on the morning of her womanhood.
He remembered the glow in her face as she had proudly danced alone that day, the ti lei gleaming between her small breasts, and the voices of dozens of boys begging for the gift. And he remembered his feeling of silent triumph as she had tossed it into his hands.
The lei was dry and brittle now, lifeless, faded with age. He wondered if the same thing had happened to their love.
It was not a trivial question. They both needed successors. Adoption was a last resort for those who truly could not have their own children; it was everyone’s duty to pass on genetic heritage as well as function. Perhaps Lehua was right, and it didn’t matter that a Governor and a Custodian had never married.
He raised the lei to slip it over his head, but it had dried too narrow, hanging on its peg, and he didn’t want to break it. Such a fragile thing now, though it had once been strong enough to bind a man’s hands. He hated what had happened to it, just as he hated the change the Council had imposed. Sometimes he even felt he hated Malamalama, source of all blessings.
Bad thoughts. Manuel shook his head to get rid of them, but he knew they would not go away.
He was angry, he realized, not just at the Council but at Hoku personally, for standing against him. She had chosen to oppose him, and none of his arguments or entreaties seemed to move her.
He reached up to hang the lei back on its peg. Its faded green was only a little darker than the grasses of the wall. In time, it would blend in completely. Manuel wondered if he would someday forget it was there.
~
“You must check the systems again,” said Councilor Haveland, fanning himself vigorously in the heat of the Council Chamber. “There is clearly a malfunction.”
“There is no malfunction,” said Manuel. “All environmental systems are operating at peak capacity—”
“Nonsense!” said Councilor Gary, wiping moisture from his brow with a fine kerchief edged in Councilor’s yellow. “If the systems were functioning properly the island wouldn’t be three degrees hotter than normal!”
Manuel’s fist tightened around a handful of his robe and forced himself to reply calmly. “It is increased demand that is causing problems. Continual day is placing strain on our cooling systems—”
“Then increase their power,” said Councilor Petra. “We have the light, let’s use it!”
“It’s not quite that simple,” Manuel began.
“Manuel, we understand your wish to make a point,” said Councilor Haveland testily, “but you’ve made it. The island needs its Custodian to keep the systems in order. You and your descendants will continue to have a place of honor. Now fulfill your function—get the island back to normal!”
“The island can’t be normal without Night!” said Manuel, his hands emphasizing his statement with the gesture meaning “night.”
“Do the Manuals say night is necessary?” asked Gary.
Manuel clenched his teeth. He’d been expecting that question; he’d spent hours searching the Manuals for just such a reference, hoping to use it in support of his arguments, but he’d found none. The Manuals were written by the Oporto and the Investors, children of Earth, who took night for granted.
“Not in so many words,” he said, “but references to nighttime functions make it clear—”
“I know of no functions that cannot be as easily performed in day,” said Gary, stifling a yawn.
“The advantages of daylight outweigh the difficulties,” said Petra. “We are increasing our quality of life. With continual work shifts we have more space for our workers, we can produce more food and allow people to have more children—”
“All of which will increase the demand on our physical systems,” said Manuel, “and they’re already overburdened!”
“Manuel,” said Hoku, who had been silently observing the discussion, “is it possible to increase power to the physical systems?”
Manuel turned to her, frustrated by her neutral mask. “Yes, but—”
“There!” said Gary in triumph. “He admits it! I move the Council require the Custodian to increase power!”
“We can’t maintain an increase indefinitely!” said Manuel, but his protest was lost in a chorus of agreement from the Councilors.
“So ruled,” said Hoku, her voice putting an end to the clamor. “Manuel, you have the Council’s instructions.” Her eyes were hard, and Manuel swallowed angrily, then turned and left the chamber without another word.
Outside the Hotel the air was oppressive; hot and damp, as if the island had been doused in the steam from a battle between Pele and her sister Hi’iaka. A slight stink of rotting vegetation made Manuel frown.
He stripped off his robe, under which he wore Maintenance garb—light, close-fitting cotton for the sacred work of Holding Up The World—but even this thin clothing seemed too much in the heat of the endless day. Manuel glanced at the nearby pole of Malamalama, terminating in the Civic Plaza, exactly opposite to the Grove of Malamalama.
Across the plaza was the Governor’s house, flanked by ti trees and stately palms. Oporto himself had once lived there. Now it was Hoku’s.
Feeling a sudden tightness in his throat, Manu
el turned away and started back toward Operations, on his side of the island. He jogged most of the way back, passing fields of flourishing new crops and others that seemed pale and withered.
Workers looked up at him, some with weary eyes; he was not the only one having trouble sleeping in the constant light. Feeling helpless against their misery, he jogged on past the fields and between flowering shrubs that had dropped their blooms, strewing the path underfoot with flashes of faded color.
Arriving at Operations with a sheen of dampness on his skin, Manuel slowed to a walk and wiped at his face with his robe. He would need a fresh one for Nightfall, and wondered how much time he had before the ceremony.
It annoyed him, having to check. Ordinarily he would have known by instinct how many hours of light were left, but he couldn’t count them now, no matter how closely he shuttered his rooms against the incessant daylight.
He strode into Operations with the robe slung over one shoulder and headed for the control room, where he found a cluster of technicians gathered. “What’s the status, Lehua?” he said, joining them.
Lehua glanced up from her console, grimacing as she wiped perspiration from her face with a brown hand. On the screens around her frantic images conveyed stress on the island’s systems.
“We’re at maximum on environmental control,” said Lehua. “Power use is up thirty percent, ambient humidity up eighteen percent, water use up seven percent. And the temperature’s still rising,” she added unnecessarily.
Manuel leaned toward the screen, knowing what he would see. Though the Council blamed the island’s woes on system failure he knew there were no malfunctions. He and his technicians had been searching the complex environmental systems for days—even for nights, though he disliked putting his staff on the continual shifts that the Council promoted—trying to find a problem to correct, but there were none.
The Custodian rubbed his sweating chin, thinking of Oporto’s warning to his children of the consequences of failing to perform Maintenance: crops withering, lakes drying, fighting among the people. He had not thought such plagues would actually occur, yet without doubt they were beginning, and only weeks after the Council had first denied his pleas to reinstate night.
