Voyage of the Basilisk : A Memoir by Lady Trent (9781429956369) (23 page)

Heali’i regarded him rather as I might regard a child who said, “What’s a dragon?” I opened my mouth to explain it to him, but was stopped by a variety of obstacles. I scarcely knew how to describe it myself, having only a partial grasp of the concept, and certainly could not do so in Keongan; yet to explain it in Scirling struck me as deeply rude to our present company (although it would allow any errors on my part to go unremarked for the time being). Furthermore, Jake had addressed his question to Heali’i, who could certainly explain it better than I.

She did not precisely explain. Instead she looked at me and said, “Tell me of your deeds.”

I wrote a moment ago that I had at least a preliminary grasp of the concept. I cannot fully explain
mana
to you, though, for I do not fully understand it myself. Heinrich von Kleist has written extensively on the subject, but I have not read the bulk of his work, as I have not had occasion to return to Keonga or any other part of the Puian islands since my time aboard the
Basilisk
.

What I came to understand in Keonga is that it combines aspects of rank, lineage, age, esteem, and spiritual power to create a hierarchy among that people, which must be respected lest one not only give offense but do supernatural harm to another. A direct lineage from the gods bestows a steady flow of
mana,
which raises kings above commoners; elder birth within a family does much the same. But
mana
is no static thing. It may be lost through carelessness and bad behaviour, or the malicious action of others (this being why
tapu
restricts certain aspects of life). It may also be earned—or perhaps it would be better to say demonstrated—through great deeds. A second son who is a mighty war-leader shows greater
mana
than his elder brother who lazes about doing nothing of note.

This, then, was the reason for the entire conversation up until this point: Heali’i did not know where to fit me into that scheme. As a non-Puian, my default position is to be entirely lacking in
mana,
for I am even less connected to the Puian gods than the most degenerate commoner of their people. But they do not write foreigners out of their system entirely: Aekinitos, for example, was assumed to possess a degree of
mana,
by virtue of being the captain of his ship, and his officers followed in lesser degree.

Had I named myself as the leader of our expedition, Heali’i would have written a small amount of
mana
for me into her mental ledger. But I could not do that to Tom; I knew too well the struggles he had endured as a man of plebeian birth. After our years of partnership, I was resolved never to claim any sort of authority over him, and certainly not on account of my more prestigious ancestry.

Deeds, however … those, I could claim.

“Ah,” I said. “I have travelled the world to study dragons.”

I meant that only to be my opening volley, the first line of the saga of my life. (Insofar as my limited command of Keongan would permit me anything like a saga.) But upon my words, Heali’i straightened, her tattoo-lined eyes going wide. “It’s true, then,” she said. “You are
ke’anaka’i
.”

I repeated the word silently, my lips shaping the syllables.
Naka’i
was the word I had known as
nataki
elsewhere in the Puian islands. It referred to different creatures depending on where I was, ranging from the sea-serpents to mere lizards, but in my head I had glossed its core meaning as “dragon.” As for the rest … “Dragon-spirited?” I murmured in Scirling.

Heali’i could not understand me, but she came forward anyway, three quick steps that brought her close enough to lay one hand over my heart. I only barely controlled the urge to shy back. “In here,” she said. “I did not think one could be born in a foreigner.”

My first instinct had been to assume that “dragon-spirited” was her way of saying that I had a strong interest in the creatures. This, however, sounded rather more literal. “Do you think I am,” I began, and then foundered on my lack of vocabulary. I could not think of a way to say “possessed.”

Heali’i nodded, grinning from ear to ear. Because I had not finished my sentence, however, what she was agreeing to was not what I had meant. She took my head in her hands and brought us together so that our foreheads and noses touched, then inhaled deeply, as if taking in my scent. “I felt it in you,” she said, still with her head against mine. “I, too, am not human.”

“I
beg
your pardon,” I said, recoiling at last.

The island woman was not bothered by my reaction. “I have heard that foreigners do not know the true stories. Your spirit comes from Rahuahane. That is why you are fascinated by the fire-lizards and the sea-serpents.”

Jake was staring at us both, eyes wide. I looked at my son as if he could somehow explain the strange turn this conversation had taken, but he shook his head. I said, “What, or who, is Rahuahane?”

Heali’i did not answer me immediately. “I am a bad host,” she said. “Come and sit in the shade. I will bring cocoanuts to drink and eat.”

I was less than entirely minded to accept her hospitality until I knew whether she was a madwoman. I could not quite bring myself to walk back down the mountain, though, not without unraveling the rest of this mystery, and so I sat down where she indicated, with Jake close by my side.

Her answer took quite a while to work through, owing to my imperfect grasp of the language. Often she would get only half a dozen words into her sentence before I had to ask for a word to be explained; the explanation would contain another word I did not know; and by the time we had arrived at a phrase I could understand in its entirety, we had quite lost track of the original sentence. Jake assisted where he could, and often saw Heali’i’s meaning before I did, but I could not risk miscommunication on a topic of such apparent import, and so had to confirm his assumptions with her before we could continue. But this, in much more efficient form, is what I learned.

I said before that there are eleven inhabited islands in the Keongan archipelago. That is not the same as eleven
habitable
islands. There is a twelfth, of acceptable size and well capable of supporting life; but a Keongan will throw himself to the mercies of the sea-serpents and the sharks rather than set foot upon it. This twelfth island is Rahuahane.

Heali’i’s explanation began with the recounting of a myth. In the early days of the world, Wali, god of the sea, and Apoa, goddess of the land, lay together, and from them were born human beings. Keongans trace their lineages back to these two gods; indeed their entire society, from the lowliest farm laborer up to the king himself, is divided into two great clans (which ethnologists call moieties), one considering itself the heirs to Wali, the other to Apoa. Although Heali’i did not say this at the time, I later learned that each moiety is required to marry out; a man of the sea may not marry a woman of the sea, or land to land. Children, upon reaching the age of majority, choose the moiety to which they will thereafter belong, allying themselves with either their father’s people or their mother’s.

But human beings were not the only children this divine pair bore. One night Apoa lay atop Wali instead, and what she gave birth to after that were
naka’i
. Again I mentally translated this as
dragon,
but by Heali’i’s account
monster
might be the more appropriate word. The
naka’i
were not kindly creatures. They lived on Rahuahane, terrorizing the men and women of the other islands, until a great hero named Lo’alama’oiri went there and turned them to stone. Ever since then, Rahuahane has been seen as cursed: an island of death.

“I was born on an island,” I said, “but it lies many days’ sail from here—more days than I can count. I do not know this Rahuahane of yours.”

“You are
ke’anaka’i,
” Heali’i insisted. “Even though you are foreign. Everything about you proclaims it. I have asked questions. You dress like a man of your people; you do a man’s work. You stand between land and sea. Just as I do.”

This time I understood all her words; her point, however, escaped me. “I thought it was my interest in fire-lizards and sea-serpents that made me
ke’anaka’i,
not my habits of dress. And you claim to be the same sort of person—yet you do not dress or act like a man.”

“Of course not,” Heali’i said, staring at me as if I were the slowest child in the village. “I dress and act like a woman.”

I do not know how long I sat there with my mouth hanging ajar. The tall, strong body. The facial tattoos, exaggerating eyes and mouth like cosmetics. The clothing—bulky by Keongan standards—padding out the bosom, augmenting the hips.

Jake blurted, “You’re a man!”

“No,” Heali’i said. “I am
ke’anaka’i
.”

Had the Keongan language been different, I might have seen it sooner. But in all the Puian tongues, they make no distinction between the masculine and feminine pronouns—only between animate things of the third person, such as people and animals, and inanimate ones such as cocoanuts. Like all those from the
Basilisk,
I had been calling Heali’i “she” … simply on the basis of assumption.

It had seemed a perfectly safe assumption. Heali’i had a husband, after all, and Mokoane was unquestionably male. (Keongans swim without clothing.) I knew from one of the participants in the Flying University that the ancient Nichaeans and various other societies valorized the love and intimacy of men, but I had never yet heard of one where they
married
each other.

But of course, as Heali’i said, she—I shall go on using the Scirling pronoun, for lack of a better—was not a man. Not as Keongans reckoned such things. Despite what lay beneath her barkcloth skirt, she was something else: a third gender, standing between male and female, between the moiety of the land and the moiety of the sea.

They are not common, the
ke’anaka’i
. Keongans identify them in their youth, sometimes by physical appearance (as there are infants born with genitalia that do not quite conform to the expected standards of male or female), but more often by their behaviour, which refuses to fit the patterned rituals and
tapu
of Keongan life. Such people are believed to be spirits from dead Rahuahane, born into human flesh … and they are dangerous.

“You’re scaring people,” Heali’i said. “You aren’t married. It’s necessary, to bind you into human society.” She laughed, a hearty sound that carried through the trees. “A foreign
ke’anaka’i,
running around with nothing to restrain her—who would believe it? No wonder your ship wrecked. A Keongan would have thrown you over the side when the storm began, to appease the gods.”

She might find it funny, but I did not agree. “I used to be married,” I said, and gestured to Jake as proof. “My husband died.”

“
Husband?
” Heali’i repeated, appalled. She recoiled from me, staring at Jake. “Tell me he is not your son.” Then she waved this away, before I could even comply. “No. No, he cannot be your son. The others have not heard this, or they would have called for the priests. You must say he is someone else’s son. The red man, or the woman from the ship.”

Jake gave me a frightened look. We both read the same meaning into Heali’i’s reference to the priests: their visit would not be a friendly one.
Ke’anaka’i,
it seemed, were not allowed to bear children. “Miss Abby,” Jake said, and I nodded. She was already his governess, and therefore spent a great deal of time looking after him; it would be easy to let the islanders believe he was her son. (Half the sailors tended to forget he was not.)

Heali’i sighed in relief. “Good. You already behave as you should, for the most part. You dress and act as a man. Even your hair is short, like a man’s.” I put one hand self-consciously to my cropped head, which had been revealed when I laid my hat aside in the shade of Heali’i’s house. “There is only one thing lacking,” she said. “You need a wife.”

Jake laughed uproariously at this. Perhaps it was the release of the previous tension; perhaps it was merely the thought of his mother playing gruff husband to some blushing bride that made him so mirthful. The blush, however, was on
my
cheeks. “Don’t be absurd.”

All amusement faded from Heali’i. “You must be married,” she said. “And not to a man. If you are not … I don’t know what they’ll do.”

The Keongans. They believed I was a reborn spirit from Rahuahane—a reborn
monster
. I had defused their concerns by coming to Heali’i, but that did not mean the concerns had gone away entirely. Fear made my skin prickle, even in the tropical warmth. “Heali’i, I cannot. I am not of your people! I do not follow your gods, know your ways—do you expect me to live here for the rest of my life? Or take some poor girl with me when I leave?”

She dismissed this with a snort. “I have heard what your home is like; it sounds much too cold. No Keongan girl would be foolish enough to sail there with you. No, you will divorce her before you go. If the gods take offense, that will be your leader’s problem, not ours.”

“What a charmingly pragmatic attitude,” I muttered in Scirling, not at all charmed. Forcing my half-stunned brain back into Keongan, I said, “It is still impossible. My interest is in
men,
Heali’i. I cannot be a husband to a woman, not in—in the physical sense. I would not even know how.” Many people over the years have accused me of having no shame, but had they been on the slopes of Homa’apia that day, they would know it to be false. There were some things I could not bring myself to do, not even for dragons.

Heali’i began laughing once more. For a moment I hoped this had all been some great joke—but no. “Do you think I lie with
my
husband? Of course not.”

I stopped my tongue before it could point out that there were societies where such things were common. We were not here to debate the sexual mores and behaviours of all peoples; only of hers and my own. “But this would not be fair to the girl. Whoever she might be. To marry her in some kind of sham, and then cast her off when I leave … I cannot imagine anyone agreeing to it.”