Voyage of the Basilisk : A Memoir by Lady Trent (9781429956369) (27 page)

“Do they go as far as the cold?” I asked—this being the only way I could think to refer to the arctic. It necessitated more explanation, this time less successful, for Heali’i had no experience of ice, let alone a region where the sea itself froze solid. (The peak of Aluko’o, which is the highest in the archipelago, sometimes has snow, but Heali’i had never seen it as more than a distant whiteness.) She expressed great doubt that the serpents went so far, but I could not read too much into that, given her lack of familiarity with the world outside her islands.

When I grew frustrated with that line of inquiry, I went back to the matter of breeding. “Where do they lay their eggs?” I asked.

Heali’i shook her head, hands rising as if to ward off the question. “On Rahuahane. That is all I know, and I do not want to know more. For you or I to go there would mean death.”

I had not forgotten the story she told about the hero Lo’alama’oiri, who turned all the
naka’i
to stone. Even ordinary Keongans shunned the place. If our spirits were supposed to be those of reborn
naka’i,
of course returning to the island would be very ill-advised.

I was, of course, deeply tempted. I doubt anyone reading this memoir imagines that I was not. Reproduction is a vital part of any species’ existence, and we knew precious little about it in most dragon breeds. But I had some experience with the reaction of locals when I trespassed upon a place said to be cursed, and while I did not expect to have a repetition of what happened in Vystrana, I did not want to tempt fate. The islanders might well decide that Liluakame’s influence was not enough to keep my dragon spirit safely in check.

Besides, there were other islands in the Broken Sea. All serpent reproduction could not happen on a single forbidden landmass—or more likely in the coastal waters of that landmass, as there was no evidence to suggest sea-serpents were amphibious, although they breathed air. Once the
Basilisk
was afloat once more, I could go in search of other hatching grounds.

But that did not mean my curiosity would lie still and trouble me no more. “Will you show me which island is Rahuahane?” I asked. “If it is not
tapu
for us to even look at it.”

Heali’i did not look pleased at the prospect, but she nodded. “We will climb Homa’apia tomorrow. From there you will see where your soul is from.”

*   *   *

Repairs had begun on the
Basilisk
almost as soon as she reached shore. With ropes pulling the ship over to starboard, I could see clearly the gash of cracked timbers where the reef had struck. It was a chilling sight; a little more force in the collision and we might have lost the vessel entirely. Some of us would have made it to shore, no doubt—the experienced swimmers, like Suhail—but not all, and those who did would have been stranded.

We would not be leaving anytime soon. Proper timber had to be obtained, and here
tapu
reared its head: the sailors could not cut trees on land belonging to the chief, nor could they take certain kinds of trees anywhere on the island during this season. It seemed to be a combination of land rights and husbandry, but whatever the cause, it drove Aekinitos half-mad with frustration. I was just as glad to be going elsewhere for a few days.

I invited Jake to go with us, but was unsurprised when he chose to stay close to shore. “Some of the other boys are going to teach me
se’egalu,
” he said, bouncing with excitement.

I could not help laughing at his enthusiasm. “And what is
se’egalu,
in Scirling?”

“There isn’t another word for it.
Se’egalu
is when you take a wooden board out into the water and stand up on it, and then ride the waves in to shore.”

We had seen this off the coast of Olo’ea, before the storm blew us to Keonga. I had not known that was the word for it. (Nowadays Scirlings call this “surf-riding.”) Nor did I learn until later that in Keonga it is considered a pastime for those of aristocratic lineages; the boys in question were a son and a nephew of the local chief. It was quite a mark of esteem that they invited my son to join them—especially as they believed him to be Abby’s son instead.

As for Suhail, he was very nearly as single-minded as Jake, and had no interest in things that lay beyond his purview. “If there are ruins, tell me,” he said. “But I don’t think it’s likely. They didn’t build on mountaintops in this part of the world—too much risk of earthquakes and eruptions.”

“Thank you for that reminder,” I said dryly. Homa’apia was not a terribly active volcano, not compared to its fellow peak on Aluko’o, which is believed to be the youngest of the Keongan Islands. It still had its share of activity, though, with steam vents and the occasional trickles of lava. We would have to exercise care on our journey.

So in the end only three of us went: myself, Heali’i, and Tom, whose strength was at last restored. “It’s glad I am to be getting out again,” he said. His Niddey accent had faded over the years, but came back strongly now, a testament to his heartfelt sincerity.

I hoped he truly was up to the trek. The summit lay a mere fifteen miles or so inland, but it towered over the shore, and the forest concealed in places a treacherously broken terrain. Heali’i said we would be gone for several days at least.

The first part of our journey was pleasant. Keonga is home to an astounding variety of birds, many of them bright with tropical plumage; I had already made arrangements with local bird-hunters to obtain specimens of several kinds, though the most splendid were reserved for chieftains and the king. Although there are insects aplenty, there are no mosquitos or other unpleasant biters, and poisonous snakes are unknown. Compared with the Green Hell of Mouleen, it truly did seem like the Garden of Paradise.

Soon the terrain grew steeper, though, and my breath came short in my lungs. My near drowning had left me feeling as if I were recovering from a head cold. I coughed frequently, earning me concerned looks from Tom. I was glad when Heali’i stopped and turned to face us.

“I should have asked before,” she said. “Do small, dark spaces bother you?”

She directed this question at Tom. (Heali’i had seen me crawl into a small steel bell and let Suhail lock the door behind me. She knew my answer already.) Tom shook his head, looking puzzled. Heali’i smiled broadly. “Good. Then follow me.”

Tom and I exchanged mystified looks, but obeyed. Heali’i led us off the path and through an open area that bore touches here and there of maintenance, as if someone wanted it to appear natural, but also to remain uncluttered by too much growth. This brought us to the mouth of what appeared to be a cave.

I mentioned lava tubes before, when speaking of how the chief took shelter from the storm. These volcanic formations are created during an eruption when the hardening lava roofs over its own channel. In the passage thus created, the molten rock retains its heat for longer, and so goes on flowing in a kind of underground river. Eventually this ends, but the hollow remains: a tube boring through the new rock, sometimes for miles at a stretch.

Keonga is honeycombed with these, some of which help account for the arduous terrain, as the collapse of their ceilings leaves the ground broken. This one, however, was almost wholly intact—the exception being where the islanders have deliberately opened vents to the world above, so as to allow the circulation of air.

This, Heali’i said, was our path. It would not take us all the way to the summit; the passage stopped short of that point, near the now-closed vent from which the lava originally issued forth. But it would allow us to bypass the worst of the slope. Quite apart from that practical consideration, this was the route used by the chief and the priests when they journeyed up Homa’apia to perform ceremonies at the top. As such, it was considered the proper way to go.

I felt as if I were journeying into another world—something out of an ancient myth. The tunnel stretched out in near-total darkness, except where a vent allowed in light and falls of flowering vines. Here and there the ceiling was festooned with narrow stalactites, which we all had to duck carefully beneath. Patient hands had carved the sides of the tunnels, mile upon mile of imagery, half of it visible only when you brought a torch close. “Suhail should see this,” I murmured to Tom, who nodded. It likely wasn’t Draconean, but it would appeal to his archaeological instincts.

Even travelling by that route, the journey was not easy. In places the tunnel became very steep, which made for difficult climbing when the stone beneath our feet was so smooth. The darkness and quiet were oppressive after the light and constant sound of the world above; I found myself missing the rise and fall of the waves, the ever-present wind. It was easy to believe we were making no progress at all, or that there was no end. We would be walking through the darkness forever, stopping occasionally to relight a torch, until we died of thirst—for there was no eating or drinking in the tunnel. “
Tapu,
” Heali’i said, and we had no choice but to comply.

There was, of course, an end. I am not writing this memoir from the confines of a Puian cave. Light grew ahead of us, and then we emerged into a different world entirely.

*   *   *

Gone was the lush forest that covered the lower slopes. Here we found ourselves amidst ferns and scrubby bushes, which are all that will grow so close to the volcano’s peak. I turned to look back the way we had come, and felt as if I were on top of the world: I could see the ocean stretching out to eternity and the other Keongan islands spreading to either side, with the great bulk of Aluko’o behind my left shoulder and the smaller isles stretching out to my right. From this height I could not see the canoes that plied the waters, except the tiny speck of a sail here and there. A dozen or so of them were passing between Keonga and its neighbour Lahana, in a loose, scattered line.

“Are fire-lizards only found around active peaks?” Tom asked, recalling me to my work.

Heali’i nodded. I took out my notebook and began to jot items down. “Which volcanoes in the archipelago have fire-lizards? And is there
any
chance of us visiting the others? There might be variation between populations.”

She laughed, beckoning for us to follow her. “You have not even seen the lizards here yet. One thing at a time.”

I closed my notebook and exchanged glances with Tom. That laugh rang false with me, and with him as well, I saw. Heali’i was trying to divert me. Why
had
the Keongans forbidden us to leave this island? It could not be
tapu
; they were not shy about telling us when a spiritual prohibition blocked our way. There was some other reason, and it worried me that they were not willing to share it.

Pressing now did not seem wise, though. Tom extinguished the torch, and then we climbed upward once more, toward the summit some distance above.

The caldera of Homa’apia was a broad crater, barren of all life. Around it stood a ring of enormous statues like none I had ever seen before: great monoliths several meters in height, most of their bulk devoted to the head, with only a small suggestion of a body below. They were abstract and imposing, their strong-featured faces staring with patient intensity across the width of the crater.

Suhail would wish to see these too, I thought. They were not at all Draconean; there was no suggestion of a dragon in those features, much less any of the characteristic elements of their aesthetic style. But something in their stony vigil reminded me of Draconean statues.

“They are the ancestor gods,” Heali’i said, in response to a question from Tom I had not attended to. “They keep watch to warn us if Homa’apia wakes fully.”

It was a chilling reminder that although the mountain on which we stood was not actively erupting, neither was it quite asleep. “Does the other peak also stir?” I asked, peering toward the other half of Keonga, where the mass of ‘Iosale rose.

“Not anymore. Do you know the story?” When we shook our heads, Heali’i recounted the tale.

Homa’apia and ‘Iosale were a pair of gods said to have created the whole archipelago—not as a harmonious effort, but as the result of their strife. The stones they hurled at one another broke the earth beneath the sea, raising island after island in fire and steam. “The chaos did not end until the other gods joined the two of them in marriage,” Heali’i said, gesturing at the valley of rich farmland where the two slopes met.

“But Homa’apia hasn’t entirely quieted down,” Tom said, amused.

Heali’i grinned at him. “Not all marriages are peaceful.”

We had brought offerings with us: wreaths of flowers, slightly wilted after being carried in our packs for the better part of the day. At Heali’i’s instruction, we flung these into the crater, where they made bright spots against the barren earth. She chanted as we did so, and for some time after, lest our activities disturb the volcano’s goddess.

It was late enough in the day that Tom and I could not do much research. We retreated from the peak to a spot that was more sheltered, more comfortable, and less hedged about with
tapu,
and there Tom began to lay out our blankets. Heali’i, however, beckoned for me to follow her. “Come. I will show you Rahuahane.”

She led me around the summit to the leeward side. At lower elevations this is the drier, less fertile side of the island; most of the rain falls to windward, leaving the other half wanting. This high on the mountain, it was a wasteland.

“Why does nothing grow here?” I asked Heali’i. My voice had sunk to a whisper, for there was something terribly chilling about that lifeless, rocky slope. I had seen rain fall upon the peak; this was no desert, so bereft of water that nothing could grow. And yet I could not see even the slightest hint of green.

Heali’i answered me quietly. “The rain here is poison. It kills the land where it falls. Look—there is your soul’s home.”

The long scar of dead ground stretched like an arrow toward a small island very near to Keonga’s leeward shore. With the tale of the
naka’i
in my mind and this blight before my eyes, I expected Rahuahane to be a blackened rock, advertising its curse to all the world. Instead I saw lush greenery, little different from that which marked the windward side of Keonga. It was perhaps less verdant, owing to its position in Keonga’s shadow, and little of its volcanic peak remained; around the central mass lay a belt of turquoise lagoons and the thick, broken ring of its coral reef, lifted up above the waves—a formation one sees at times on older islands. From above, I thought, it would look almost like an eye.