Island's End Read online

  “Uido, I, too, was overjoyed the first time I made fire,” Lah-ame says. “I made the same mistake you did. It is only natural. But the more dangerous mistake even an older oko-jumu may repeat is to enjoy one’s power too much.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  For a long time, Lah-ame squeezes my temples, until my heady pride at making the fire drains out of me. “A fire like the one you just made has the power to warm us, light up our nights and cook our food. But if left unguarded, it can leap into a rage and burn down a village. And just as you learn to control the fire’s power by tending to it with skill and respect, so must you watch yourself, Uido. Spirits may use their powers to punish and destroy; we must not. If you become oko-jumu someday, your every act and decision must be for the tribe’s good.”

  “I will remember, Lah-ame.” I stare into the flames and hug my knees to my chest. After days of churning the fire stick with a vine rope, my arm muscles bulge out like a young man’s.

  “Your training is nearly complete,” Lah-ame says.

  “Not already?” I say.

  Lah-ame smiles at my surprise.

  “Tomorrow we will start making a canoe, to help you with the final test that awaits.”

  “A canoe?” This confuses me. “Is it not far too stormy to go out on the ocean for another two moons at least?”

  Lah-ame points to the west. “You will need to canoe up the stream and search the swamp until you find your insect-eating plant.”

  “It grows in the swamp?” I try to keep my voice from shaking. I cannot believe Lah-ame will send me there. I was about ten seasons old when Kara and three of his best hunters left to see what was in the western part of our island. Only one of his hunters returned with him.

  They told of walking west until they came to a place where the mud stank of dead leaves. There they found crocodiles: creatures three times as long as a grown man, with teeth sharper than a shark’s. These duku-ta hid in the mud, pretending to be dead tree trunks, until a man came near enough for them to gulp down. Kara killed the crocodile that ate two of our men and carried it back. But though its giant body fed the entire tribe, Kara warned us all to keep far away from the swamp and he never went there again.

  “Once your canoe is made, I will take you to the swamp,” Lah-ame says. “But you must journey through it alone. The insect-eating plant’s waters will carry special healing powers in your hands, and you will need these waters to heal. It also holds a message to help you guide the tribe into the future, a message that you might only understand long after you complete your journey.”

  That evening, I hardly taste the food we eat. Even with the fire I built dancing in front of me and my medicine bag at my waist, I feel unprepared for such a test. Although the crackling flames warm my skin, my spirit remains cold with horror. Lah-ame stays close by until I leave for my own hut, but we find nothing more to say and his presence no longer comforts me.

  15

  That night, I am unable to rest on my sleeping platform. My body feels as tense as a tightly pulled bowstring. I twist and untwist my medicine bag’s drawstring between my fingers, wondering if the tribe’s warm breath will ever stroke my cheeks again. I long to feel Mimi’s and Tawai’s arms around me and hear Danna say I will survive whatever lies ahead.

  It would help me so much to even glimpse them from a distance. Perhaps I could try to see them in spirit at least, using my power to journey through the Otherworld.

  Lah-ame is fast asleep. Except for my spirit’s wanderings in dreams, he has always been near me when I entered the Otherworld. I remember his warning after my dream of snakes not to send my spirit away from my body without his guidance until my training was complete. But I must search with my spirit for my tribe’s communal hut tonight, because I cannot bear my loneliness any longer.

  I slip out into the jungle. As soon as I am out of Lah-ame’s sight, I lie on the moist earth facing east and close my eyes. Listening to the wind rattling the leaves overhead and raindrops drumming on the jungle floor, I send my spirit into the Otherworld.

  Behind my closed eyes, I see a light twinkling like a firefly in the trees. I drift over the moist earth toward it. It leads me to a moonlit clearing, where I see a huge banana-leaf hut with a roof sloping low to the ground and no walls. Moving closer, I see my entire tribe asleep inside. Family groups are huddled together on the many wooden platforms. Natalang’s thighs wobble as she turns on her side, next to her mimi. The tips of Danna’s mouth are turned up as though he is having a good dream.

  Across from Danna’s family lies my own. Tawai’s head rests against Mimi’s shoulder. Her long fingers are wrapped around Kara’s thick ones but Ashu’s fists are clenched even in his sleep.

  My chest tightens with loneliness. I am still far enough away that I can only see them. I want to get near enough to smell the sweat on Kara’s skin, hear Mimi’s breath rising and falling like the ocean waves, feel the warmth of Tawai’s hand curled up inside mine.

  I imagine waking them up and hearing the tribe’s shouts—first of surprise, then of welcome. But if I return to my people now, it will be harder than ever to leave again. Knowing that I must journey through the swamp, I might not find the strength to pull myself away. It feels very long ago that my spirit was so full of excitement and curiosity about the Otherworld that Lah-ame’s warnings of pain and death meant little to me.

  Slowly I force myself to glide out of our communal hut and into the clearing. The huge leaf hut grows small and distant as I leave it behind and float back across the jungle. When I turn for one last look, it has become as tiny as a spider’s web.

  Opening my eyes, I find myself alone once more, raindrops sparkling around me in the moonlight.

  I return to my lonely banana-leaf hut. When I fall asleep, I dream of seeing my tribe again as if from a great distance. The faces and bodies of my people blur together in my mind, all growing into one person. I see this person’s spirit as a bright glow, but as I move toward it, the glow shrinks into a dot no larger than a little spider. Frightened, I reach out my hand. As the bright spot climbs into my palm, I understand that this delicate spirit is mine to protect. For a moment at least, I am not afraid of what awaits me; instead, I fear only for the tribe whose safety I will hold in my hands if I become oko-jumu.

  16

  When I awake, I feel refreshed and determined to find the insect-eating plant. I must collect its healing waters and learn what it has to say—for the sake of my people. If going through the swamp will give me knowledge to help guide the En-ge into the future, then I must do it.

  Later that morning, Lah-ame goes into the jungle with me to choose a tree trunk for a canoe. It takes us nearly half the day in the pouring rain just to drag the trunk back to my leaf hut. He shows me how to carve out the trunk using his stone adze. While I work, he sings stories of how our ancestors used waves and currents, as well as the movements of birds and stars, to guide them from island to island in days long gone. I do not understand why I need to learn any of this since I will never need to canoe far into the ocean. But I am glad to learn something new because it keeps me from worrying about the upcoming journey. Lah-ame keeps me up late into the night, naming the stars that help the En-ge keep direction.

  For the rest of the rainy season I continue to hollow out the log canoe while Lah-ame teaches me many things. I learn how an oko-jumu must predict the change of seasons by watching the patterns drawn across the sky and sea and the behavior of the plant and animal spirits. In the evenings I practice fire making and at night Lah-ame tells me more about canoeing across the ocean. His songs and stories feed my body as well as my spirit. My back and shoulders grow broader still from hitting stone against wood, and my spirit’s determination to pass the test ahead strengthens as well.

  By the time the canoe is carved, along with two poles and paddles, the wind and rain have weakened. On the morning after the moon has grown into a circle for the sixth time since we left the tribe, Lah-ame says, “Tomorrow we will
set out.”

  We spend much of the day preparing for when I reach the swamp. Lah-ame gives me many empty wooden vessels with lids.

  “These are to store the waters from your special medicine plant,” he says.

  That night, I keep my thoughts on the image of my tribe sleeping together in the communal hut. It helps me stay determined to find the insect-eating plant and ignore my fear of the swamp.

  Lah-ame wakes me at dawn. I knot my medicine bag to my waist belt with two vine ropes, to make very sure it will not fall off. We pile everything we need for the journey into my canoe and heave it onto our shoulders. The canoe is heavy, but I lift it with ease. My footsteps are steady as we walk to the stream. We lower the canoe into the cold, mist-covered water.

  “You have a new strength this morning,” Lah-ame remarks. “This is good, because there is a new skill to learn today.” He leaps into the front end of the canoe. “Watch what I do.” I hear monkeys screeching with curiosity in the treetops as Lah-ame pushes off the bottom of the stream with a pole.

  Lah-ame shows me how to use the paddle. I am amazed how easily this skill comes to me—as though I have been canoeing since my childhood. The monkeys follow us, swinging from the trees along the bank for a time. Their happy chatter encourages me. But soon the canoe is too fast for them to keep up. I am sorry when we leave them behind.

  As evening approaches, we lose the distant chatter of monkeys, then the songs of birds and finally even the chirp of crickets. I hear only the splash of our poles in the creek, the plip-tup-plip-tup of rain and water slapping at the sides of our canoe. Tall trees no longer stand guard on the stream’s banks, which turn muddy. Plants with twisted trunks grow out of the mud, their branches hanging out across the water as though they were reaching for me.

  “What plants are those?” My finger shakes as I point at them.

  “These are mangrove trees,” Lah-ame says. “Their roots jut out of the ground to help them breathe.”

  I watch the sun setting behind the mangroves ahead of us. The stream becomes narrower and clouds of mosquitoes swarm around my ears. Zzzzt, Zzzzt, they drone, biting into my cheeks, my arms, my back, my front. The stench of rotting leaves fills the air.

  Lah-ame gets out of the canoe and pulls it up a clay bank. I hear something thrashing in the water behind us and glance back. Through the fading light, I see the jaw of a huge lizard snapping shut and sinking beneath the water.

  I clamber up the slippery bank as fast as I can. “Is that a duku-ta?”

  “You are afraid, Uido,” Lah-ame says.

  I want to deny it, but my voice has given me away already. I have nothing with which to defend myself—not even a digging stick.

  “There are many crocodiles here,” Lah-ame says. “But all creatures can be calmed by a true healer.” He hands me his bone rattle. My fingers tremble as I take it. The rattle makes a pleasant sound, like flowing water. I knot it tightly to my bone necklace but I do not see how it will be of any use in fighting a crocodile.

  Next, Lah-ame slips a water bag over one of my shoulders and a bag filled with food over the other. “It is time for me to leave,” he says.

  Although I know the journey through the swamp must be mine alone, I have pushed this moment of parting out of my mind, refusing to think of it. Now it is here, I can get no words out.

  “Your spirit and body have grown powerful, Uido, powerful enough for you to sense your way through the Otherworld alone and return safely to our people.” Lah-ame holds my face in his hands for a long moment. “May Biliku-waye and Pulug-ame guide you as you walk north to find your special medicine and learn the plant’s message.”

  He blows across my cheeks, then walks down the bank to the canoe.

  I watch Lah-ame push away into the gloom. My spirit feels trapped, as if in a bad dream from which I cannot awake.

  The ripples made by Lah-ame’s boat slowly fade.

  And there is only silence.

  17

  I peer into the swamp ahead as the darkness thickens around me. A tangle of mangrove roots sticks out of the ground like the legs of a gigantic spider. It makes me think of Biliku-waye.

  Praying she will guide me safely through this place, I take a step toward the spiderlike roots, away from the water and the crocodiles. Behind me, I hear the squelch of mud.

  I cannot help looking back. A crocodile four times my size is clambering onto the bank, dragging its tail across the wet earth.

  Panic rises like cold water in my chest. Not far ahead, I see a circular patch of mud between the mangrove trees. It looks unnaturally smooth—like the strangers’ metal boats. Thinking it will be easier to escape the crocodile if I am running over mud than if I am stumbling across mangrove branches, I run toward the mud as fast as the swampy ground will allow.

  A fallen tree trunk blocks my way. I stumble over it. But then the log comes alive. Another crocodile!

  I leap away.

  When I land, my feet sink ankle-deep into the smooth mud. I try to go forward, but I only slide in deeper. The mud sucks hungrily at my legs, pulling me down. In no time it rises up to my knees, my thighs.

  The crocodiles hang back from the gleaming mud, their unblinking eyes shining in the light of the rising moon. I slap and kick at the mud but the earth’s grip tightens. The more I struggle, the lower I sink. I fall in up to my waist. The stench of mud fills my nose and my throat feels dry, as though there is no water left inside me.

  I hear a voice through the gloom.

  Why are you here?

  I shiver.

  Why are you here?

  “To find the insect-eating plant,” I whisper.

  Why do you want to find it?

  Closing my eyes, I picture that strange, beautiful creature again—the pink-red of its pitcher-shaped leaves, the sweet-smelling juice inside. It feels so long ago when I first saw it, my spirit filled with no more than curiosity and wonder. “I want to learn the plant’s message and carry its healing waters with me,” I say.

  Why?

  In my mind I see again, as from a distance, the huge communal hut shrinking, all my people coming together as one person. The image calms me. “I hope its message will guide us into a safe future. And it is my special medicine plant, whose powers will help me care for my people, whom I love.”

  If you act lovingly, the earth spirit will let you go. Stop kicking and slapping at Tarai-mimi. Why are you hurting her?

  I shake my head, confused. Then I realize that in the last few moments, while being still, I sank no deeper into the mud.

  With all my strength, I try to control my body’s urge to fight its way out. Carefully, I feel for the rattle around my neck and move it back and forth to calm my spirit. The crocodiles, too, seem calmed by the sound. They stop staring at me and instead gaze up at the moon. A sudden gust of wind cools the sweat on my forehead. I lift my chin up to the night sky and breathe in deeply.

  Listening to the watery sound of the rattle, I imagine it is not mud around my body but a stream. Instead of struggling against the earth’s grip, I pretend I am wading through shallow water. The mud squelches with every movement, but its hold on me weakens.

  Slowly, slowly, I get closer to the edge of the stinking pit. Just beyond the gleaming mud, I see the dark shape of a mangrove tree. Its spidery roots help keep the trunk above the swampy ground, and I hope they are strong enough to hold me too.

  I reach out and grab the roots. Little by little I pull myself up. My fingers curl higher around the roots, then around the lowest part of the trunk. At last, hugging tightly to the tree, I heave my body out of the pit.

  More mangrove trees grow in the swampy ground ahead. I crawl deep into the tangle of gnarled roots. When I dare to look back through the darkness, the crocodiles are gone and the sticky mud is no more than a faint gleam.

  But my bags of food and water are lost—they must have slipped off my shoulder and fallen into the pit. Thankfully, my medicine bag still hangs at my waist—although it is cover
ed with mud. I pull open the drawstring and see by the moonlight that squeezes through the mangrove branches that everything inside is clean. Bowing my head, I say a grateful prayer to Biliku-waye.

  My stomach growls with hunger as I lie back in the nest of mangrove roots. They poke into my back and a thick mat of thirsty mosquitoes settles down on top of me. Hearing a rustle in the leaves overhead, I look up to see a viper slithering up the branch. Yet despite the snake, the mosquitoes and my hunger, I smile in triumph. After making my way safely past the crocodiles and getting out of the sucking mud alive, it feels like nothing could stop me from finding the insect-eating plant. I hug my own strong body, tired but happy to be alive. And although it is uncomfortable, I fall asleep among the roots.

  18

  The next morning, I wake up late, feeling almost as tired as when I went to sleep. The sun has climbed into the middle of the sky and the heat has chased the mosquitoes away. The viper, too, is gone. But my stomach is so empty it hurts, and my tongue is as dry as a withered leaf. I desperately need a drink of water.

  I poke in between the mangrove roots and pull up a handful of wet mud. Holding it above my mouth, I squeeze hard. Brown water drips onto my lips but it tastes so bad that I spit it out.

  Looking around me, I try to decide what to do next. My body is bumpy and swollen from mosquito bites. But as soon as I picture the insect-eating plant in my mind again, I realize something that gives me new strength: the plant has watery juice for me to drink.

  I gaze ahead, through the closely woven tree trunks. To the north, I spot a patch of red. Hoping the insect-eating plants grow there, I crawl across the mangrove roots in that direction.

  Soon I am forced to leave the shelter of the trees behind. Wet mud stretches in front of me, broken only by pools of brown water. I break off a mangrove branch and walk forward carefully, testing the ground ahead with every step. Mud squelches between my toes and leeches wriggle up my legs. I have seen a few leeches by our pool with Natalang, but never as many as in this swamp. I stop to flick the ugly creatures off my legs and continue north, toward the reddish patch.