Island's End (10 page)

T
he 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.

As I move closer, my eyes make out the pitcher-shaped leaves. For a few moments, I do not dare to let myself rejoice, afraid that it is just my imagination. But the plants do not disappear as I approach them.

Though my skin burns and my head aches, I rush forward as fast as I can until I am surrounded by the insect-eating plants. I sink down on my knees among them and take a deep breath of the sweet-smelling air.

I tear off a leaf and swallow all the juice inside. Leaf after leaf I suck dry, until my throat is soothed and my thirst is gone. Even my stomach feels full.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Like a snake shedding its old skin, I scrape off the dried mud still on me. Then I crush some leaves in my palm and smear them over myself. To my surprise, the pain in the bumps left by the mosquitoes lessens. When I rub the juice into my temples, my head stops aching.

“This juice works faster than any of the medicines in my pouch,” I say, surprised by how refreshed I feel. “Why?”

“I saw the insect-eating plants in my first vision of the Otherworld.”

“The day the strangers came. But . . . but they make me angry.”

I think of the strangers’ fast metal boat and the wonderful paintings inside Ragavan’s box. Unable to deny that the strangers’ magic amazes me, I remain silent.

Remembering the disturbing aura around Ragavan’s head, I disagree. “If the strangers are not evil, why does Lah-ame want to keep us far away from them?”

“We have everything we need here,” I say. “None of us wants to leave the island.”

“The Otherworld is larger.”

I nod, thinking of how uninterested Natalang was in the Otherworld—and yet how fascinated she was by the fruit that the strangers brought from across the sea.

“What does all that mean?” I ask. “How will this knowledge help me guide the tribe?”

“Where should I go now?” I try not to sound disappointed, and yet I cannot help wishing the plants had something more for me—like a prayer or a magical object that would keep the strangers away from our island forever.

From my medicine bag, I take out the empty wooden vessels that Lah-ame gave me. Carefully, I pinch off many leaves and drain every drop of juice into my vessels. I fill them all and place the leaves in my pouch.

“I thank you,” I say, picking up my mangrove branch again. My spirit feels so calm and soothed in the plants’ presence that it is hard to leave them behind. Yet I am also eager to see Lah-ame again and celebrate my successful journey with him.

Remembering what Lah-ame taught me about keeping direction by looking at the sun, I start walking northeast. At each step, I test the ground ahead with my branch, although I see no more pits of hungry mud. The juice of the insect-eating plants swells in my stomach, which feels as heavy as if it were filled with meat. And although my ears are irritated by the
zzzt, zzzt
of mosquitoes, the juice works better than fresh body paint to keep both them and the leeches away.

Slowly, the ground underfoot becomes firmer. Glad not to have mud squelching between my toes, I move faster. By sunset, I see short trees poking up into the sky. They are not as tall or as thick as in our jungle, but it feels good to see them and better still to leave the stink of the swamp behind. I stop and rest beneath a tree for the night.

The next morning, Pulug-ame sends a gentle drizzle. I hold my mouth open to the sky and let the sweet water moisten my tongue and trickle down my throat. Over the next two days, the rain gets even lighter. I wonder if the tribe, too, is walking back up the island or if they have returned to the dry-season village already.

Late in the morning on the fourth day, I see the cliff rising up like a distant wall. My footsteps quicken and I reach the foot of the cliff at twilight. Holding my rattle high above my head, I shake it in celebration.

A new burst of strength gushes into my tired limbs at the thought that I will soon be with Lah-ame again. “I, Uido, found the insect-eating plant and I carry its healing waters!” I sing out, although there is nobody to hear me. My feet kick at the ground in a dance of joy and my triumphant spirit seems to leap as high as the cliff.

E
ager to be back with Lah-ame, I start up the cliff path. The clay is smooth but not slippery and it smells pleasant, like wet body paint.

A short while later, in the moonlit darkness, I reach the top of the cliff. I suck in a long stream of air, enjoying the salty taste I know so well. A soft wind kisses my bare skin as if in welcome as I listen to the familiar song of the ocean far beneath me.

Although Lah-ame is not yet here, I sense that he will come soon. Too tired to go any farther, I lie down on my back, drenching my body in a great pool of moonlight.

When I awake, midday sunshine pours across the ground and Lah-ame is standing near me. “Welcome back, Uido,” he says. “From the very beginning of your training I knew you would succeed.”

He reaches down and pulls me into his arms. His breath is a calm breeze on my face and I feel his spirit glowing with pride and happiness.

“Thank you for your guidance, Lah-ame,” I say, though the words seem too small. I can only hope he senses the depth of my gratitude.

“So,” he says, letting me go, “your training with me is almost at an end. There is just one last thing. Uido, would you like to fly?” He runs his hand over his white curls and pulls out one of the four feathers tucked into his headband. “The sea eagle is my spirit animal, Uido. And I will ask that he let you fly with him one time so that someday, when you meet your spirit animal, you will have a sense of how to send your spirit into its body.”

To fly with an eagle sounds more wonderful than anything I ever imagined. The thought of it sets my heart skipping like sunshine on water.

Lah-ame faces east and raises his hands. The tips of his fingers seem to touch the clouds. “Kolo-ame,” he calls, “come to me.”

I see an eagle appear in the east. The bird streaks toward us across the blue, carried by a sudden rush of wind from far across the sea. It hovers above us. Looking up, I see its soft white belly and the dark tips of its great wings.

“Brother, this is Uido,” Lah-ame says to the eagle. “She has walked a long way with me and hopes to become an oko-jumu. Will you take her upon your shoulders?”

The eagle screeches.

Lah-ame leads me to the edge of the cliff. We stop barely a hand’s width from where the rock drops straight down into the water. Lah-ame spreads my arms out to my sides. “Close your eyes.”

I stand on tiptoe. Lah-ame lets go of me and I feel a spurt of fear.

“Allow your body to become as light as an eagle’s feather.” Lah-ame’s whisper is the voice of the wind tugging at my feet. “Let the eagle’s sight fill your eyes.”

I feel an eagle’s feather stroke across the tip of my outstretched fingers. I feel the air entering my body, cool and fresh.

I am on the eagle’s back, hearing the beat of its wings. Below us, my island shines, the jungle as green as a parrot’s feathers.

We swoop low over the cliff, eastward along the island’s edge, until we are at the tall rock that marks the highest point on the island. Then we fly above the steep jungle path that leads down from the cliffs to the wide expanse of our beach along the eastern shore.

We turn inward, dipping beneath the trees that separate the beach from our dry-season village. There, over the clearing, we hover for a few moments, watching the women at work below. I see Mimi and her youngest sister sitting close to our hut, weaving a basket from strips of cane. She looks up as we swoop down and I wonder if her spirit senses my presence close to her. At the edge of the village, between the circle of huts and the jungle, a few children are swinging on a vine. Tawai is with them, taller since I last saw him, but no fatter. I hear his happy shouts before we rise high up again, above the treetops.

Away we soar toward the south of our island, passing over the huts where Lah-ame and I stayed in the rainy season and above the large communal hut where my tribe was living. Far to the west, I glimpse the mangrove swamp. We glide back, north and east, over the waves of our fishing beach where the strangers came ashore.

The strangers’ island lies in a straight line from here
.

I gaze down at the white flecks dotting the blue sea. It is dusk as we fly further east, away from my island, until through the darkness I see a beach I recognize—where Lah-ame’s friend stood in my vision on the cliff long ago. All night, we fly among the stars. But at dawn, I hear the eagle screech four times as though to call me out of the Otherworld. I float down through the pink sky like an eagle feather. My feet grow heavy again and my toes feel the earth beneath them.