FIRST WHISPER
The late afternoon sun, a buttery wash of gold, stretched long, shimmering shadows across the beach of Banaba. The sweet smell of distant frangipani blossoms was carried on the breeze, a heavy, tropical perfume.
Two children chased a hollowed-out coconut ball, its rough, fibrous husk flying with an erratic, airy bounce. Each impact was a dull, rhythmic thud punctuated by high-pitched squeals of laughter.
One boy, Pedro, a blur of sandpiper motion, darted. His tall, slender frame was surprisingly agile as he intercepted the wobbly trajectory of the coconut. "It's Mine! You think you can catch me?" he yelled, his voice cracking slightly—sounding deeper than a child's but still full of youthful energy. His face, framed by short, dark cropped hair, was scrunched in a fierce, joyful grimace that made his bright, wide eyes shine with triumphant excitement.
His lean, athletic frame tensed. The fibers of his dry fabric skirt rustled against his legs with a dry shhh. With a burst of confidence, he launched a kick, his bare foot connecting solidly with the brown coconut, sending it soaring through the salty air toward Chalo.
It hit Chalo in the face—a sharp thwip followed by a puff of stinging, dry sand messing up his shaggy hair.
"Aww!" Chalo cried, his face tightening with raw frustration.
He turned to the two men sitting on a elevated, thatched roof. His voice had a huffed, breathless quality. "Uncle Tinko! Pedro kicked the coconut towards me. Look at what he did!"
He turned to the two men sitting on a elevated thatch roof. His voice had a huffed, breathless quality. "Uncle Tinko! Pedro kicked the coconut towards me. Look at what he did!"
Tinko, a man with lean, narrow shoulders and eyes set in skeptical intensity, shifted. His deep, black hair was thick and shaggy, layered with sharp, tapered ends that reached his eyebrows. He was a face etched with the hard lines of a man who tolerated no nonsense.
"Chalo!, what is wrong with you?! Is this how you play with your brother?"
Chalo stood there, a frown on his face. "It was an accident. I'm sorry."
Tinko slammed his palms down on the split-timber floor of the elevated platform, making a hollow, percussive THUMMP! that sent a shiver through the woven thatch. He leaned forward from the edge of the hut, pretending to lunge forward in a pretense of rage. "Do you want me to come over there?!"
Tako Kabauea, sitting beside him, flickered his dark, expressive eyes in subtle shock at the slam.
Chalo took a step back, his voice thin. "No!, no. I'm sorry."
The moment felt silent.
Tinko paused, holding his intense stare for a beat before his shoulders slumped in a heavy sigh. "If you can't play carefully, I'm going to send you home. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Uncle Tinko."
The two men returned to their conversation, shutting off the boys like a door slamming.
Pedro walked away, stomping his feet, the dry shell debris crunching loudly beneath his heels.
"I'm not playing anymore with you. My whole body is stuffed with sand, by your stupid roughness."
Chalo bent down, retrieving the coconut ball. He paced behind the departing Pedro, a desperate expression on his face. "Pedro, it was an accident. I'm sorry."
Pedro kept walking with a defiant glance. "No. It's too late."
"I promise I will be more careful from now on. Please just come back and play the game."
Pedro turned around, his dark-brown eyes boring into him. "Alright, but if you do it again, I'm leaving."
Chalo's voice filled with a yell of relief. "Yes, yes! Come on, it's your turn."
"Wait a second. I will wash up first," Pedro said. He turned and darted swiftly into the deep island. His feet made a heavy pluff on the thick, white sand.
On the high-thatched roof, the bure stood on coral stilts. Tako looked at the sea. "I didn't want to tell you this, because I pretty much find you obnoxious when it comes to these things, but... I spoke with a girl I met in Arorae." He widened his eyes. "Man, you should've seen her. I just saw something in her when we exchanged brief stares. Her eyes were kind of... hazel, light brown colored that had that yellow richness in them."
Tinko formed an 'o' of surprise, leaning back. "Oh. That is... that might be the biggest lie you've told me."
Tako leaned forward immediately, eyebrows pulled down in annoyance, palms interlaced. "See? I knew I shouldn't have told you." He leaned back with a broad gesture. "How would I lie? I'm being serious. The day I arrived there we met. I walked up to her and spoke to her."
Tinko squinted. "Is that so? Well Tako, my dear friend. I've known you for a long time and believe me when I tell you, I didn't see you with any chick on this piece of land to begin with." He pointed to the ground. "I mean, you want to tell me that you MaNaGE to find A girlfriend out there, but not here? Give me a break." He turned his head away with a light chuckle and nudged the tip of his nose.
Tako gave a slight incredulous smile. "Wait, you actually think I could never have the luck of my life? So... you want me to be alone?"
Tinko turned back with a pointed finger. "That's not what I said. Don't put words in my mouth. I am just curious how you were a shy chicken and the minute you got there you became 'mister confident gets the girlfriend.'"
Tako shook his head. "You know what? I noticed you like to hear the sound of your own voice. You think you're better than me, don't you? Well, I never saw YOU with a girlfriend either, hmm?" He leaned in. "Explain to me why you didn't use your persuasion magic to get as many gfs as you could, and teach me how it's done?"
Tinko pointed to his own chest. "Oh, so now you want to shift your own failures back to me? Don't look at me. I'm a pro player."
Tako waved dismissively. "Ach."
"I could get as many chicks as I wanted. And oh..." Tinko tapped him on the arm. "Did you see one of them I chatted with yesterday? I saw you. You were sitting near the tent with your mother and Rania."
Tako chuckled in a defeated tone. "That... wasn't your girlfriend, man. That was probably someone you barely knew."
Tinko raised a brow. "But you saw me holding hands with her though? See? I knew you saw me chatting with her. I caught you good. Unlike you, I can actually get them to like me. Hey, do you know what they call you?" He shoved Tako with a shoulder. "Tako Te Kirikiti—'the cricket.' Or no, I got something better... you're a maninniku, ha ha." He shoved Tako again. "You are a hermit crab hiding in its shell, Tako."
Tinko smirred, gesturing to himself. "And I'm A Te Kani Batau, baby." He clapped his hands loudly.
Tako's face lit up with mockery. "You called yourself a bitter leaf. Ha ha ha. You were so dumb to think that name was cool whoever told you that, oh man."
Tinko's eyes went wide, blinking in confusion. "What do you mean leaf? It means enigmatic."
Tako tilted his head, eyes narrowing into dark slits. "Come again?"
"It means enigma—" Tinko began, chin tilted up. Then, his eyes squeezed shut in a sudden, painful realization. "Oh, wait... Oh brother." He slapped his hand against his face with a sharp crack. "I told one of my girlfriends the exact thing yesterday," he groaned behind his palm. "Boy, I'm gonna kill that guy for making me a fool."
Tako let out a bark of laughter. "You're an idiot," he chuckled, giving Tinko's shoulder a mocking shove. "Ah, ah. Maybe you should speak Kiribati more often."
Tako's chuckle faded. He turned toward the distant horizon. His dark eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing as he strained to make out the shape.
A faint silhouette haunted the distance, shimmering against the unbearable light that shattered across the ocean's surface. The sound of the reef made a rhythmic hiss.
Tako tapped Tinko's arm slowly. "Hey, hey. Look over there."
Tinko leaned closer. "It looks... like a vessel. Someone's approaching."
A soft woosh of wind caught the front locks of the men's hair, pulling them across their foreheads.
Tako glanced at him. "You don't think they might be the Te Arorae?"
Tinko gave a clueless look. "I don't know."
Tako's chest felt tight. "Unbelievable. I really hope it's them. If it is, we gotta tell the chief. But... why is there only one waa?"
They both stood up and took several paces forward. Tako resumed: "From this distance we had to still see multiple of them, but a single boat on such a long journey seems unusual."
Tinko placed his hands on his hips. "Who told you need multiple waa to travel such distances?" His gaze narrowed on the ever-approaching waa. "They probably just sent a scout ahead. Voyaging alone is dangerous, but it's something our ancestors used to do."
Chalo saw the vessel. The coconut ball stopped dead as his eyes widened. He pointed a firm finger. "Uncle Tinko! It's Te Arorae."
Tinko gave a glance toward the boat. "I'm not so sure, Chalo. If they get closer, only then we can know who it is."
Tako turned his head. "Tinko. I will let Chief Maluma know right away. I'll be back."
Tinko gave a thumbs up. "Yeah, alright."
Only Tako's pluff footsteps were heard
toward the village, fading into the distance.
Deep within the village, the roar of the reef faded into a muffled hum.
A boy sat beside Tenia, who was busy weaving a marō.
Tenia didn't look up. Her hands moved in a blur, a mechanical dance of click-zzip-pact. The sound was constant, a sharp, dry rhythm that filled the whare
Click. Fold.
Zzip. Pull.
Pact. Set.
Every three seconds, a new row was born, perfectly uniform.
Beside her, Maluma's work was a series of hesitant crink-snaps—the sound of breaking fibers and failed tension.
The Kanoa's prominent brow was furrowed in concentration. His striking amber eyes caught the ambient sunlight. He had dark soot on his sun-browned fingers as he pressed charcoal to the surface of Te Itai. The reddish grain of the wood shimmered under the oil finish.
The image was a badly drawn sailing canoe. Inside the hull, three stick figures stood side-by-side. Behind the canoe, jagged lines traced a massive V-shape—the thirty-three islands of Kiribati. At the bottom, five words: Aibu, Te gae, Te ibu, Te Buiuaba.
The Chief held up a clumsily plaited rectangular marō of taro fiber. His massive, scarred fingers fumbled with the weave. "Do you think it's any good?" he asked, his deep voice lacking iron command.
Tenia, her hair pulled into a high bun with wispy strands framing her face, pressed her lips together. A quick, controlled guff of sound forced its way out as her shoulders shook with laughter. "You said you have been training for two months, and this is the best you can do?" She handed it back delicately. "You weren't serious about practicing, Maluma."
Maluma raised his broad shoulders in defense. "Well, I did my best. I might not have been practicing... everyday. But, but, I still dedicated hours on certain days. That does count for something?"
Tenia organized new pointy leaves. "Well, one thing's known: You won't get better anytime soon with that dedication."
Maluma met her eyes with a smile. "I'm so lucky to have a woman like you. Such beauty."
She chuckled, lowering her head. Her lean fingers caught the strands of pandanus with a sharp, audible snap. Every row was perfectly uniform.
"Such, such beauty behind that stern attitude I could admire everyday," Maluma continued.
Tenia shook her head, a faint Hnn-hnn-hnn of internal mirth. "Too bad you cannot admire your own poor skillset."
Maluma touched his chest where the necklace of large white shells and red stones remained. "Oomf. Would you just break me like that, my love? My sweet coral bloom, the deepest—"
"Chief!" Tako's voice cut the air.
Their attention snapped forward. Kanoa looked up, halting his drawing.
Maluma's voice turned into a low rumble, like a drum. "What? What's the matter?"
"I saw a waa in the distance."
"Really?" Maluma immediately stood up.
"Everyone at the shore saw it too, but we don't know who they are."
The boy, Kanoa ran with heavy thumping on the compact earth toward the west coast.
Tenia stood up, recoiling as if the word 'waa' had physical weight. Her fingers twitched—dropping the strands of pandanus that unspooled like dying snakes across the mat. Her head tilted sharply as she quickened her stroll.
Tako ran off the Maneaba and went to the west-southwest onto the cool shade of the breadfruit trees and low-lying pandanus groves.
The afternoon sun faded as the settlement's cool, filtered shade set on the small cluster of homes. The air was heavier here, smelling of wood smoke, drying kopra, and the salty tang of washed fishing nets.
The distant roar of the reef was muffled, replaced by the repetitive, deeper THUUD-thud of the stone pestle. Beneath that bass note, the air was alive with the high-pitched, metallic cheep-cheep-cheep of unseen starling birds flitting through the breadfruit canopy. Their calls were sharp, cutting through the humid stillness like tiny glass needles.
Two men, with the comfortable, swollen bellies of well-fed island elders, stood inside an open-sided whare.
The coconut pillars (bou) supported a high, steep thatch roof designed to pull heat upward and away from the workers.
on the ledge rested the tools: stone adzes (tanai), and Coral Files (Te Atibu-rokuroku).
The first elder's heavy jowls jiggled with each focused movement. He wasn't just hitting the mortar; he was "tuning" it. He used the blunt end to rhythmically tap a specific curve—a tink-tink-tink against the dry wood—before delivering the heavy strike.
The sound became a definitive, low, booming THUMMP.
His voice followed, a barrel-chested rumble:
"Ngkana ko ongo ana anene n te kaan, ko na ongo te bita bitare n ai ni kanangiran te taba ao te bita bitare n te ao ni kaan te anene."
The other elder shifted, his skin making a dry shhh against the horizontal beam. He watched the flexing skin and the tapping shell.
"Ko bon te rongo bita, tiaki n au iango... ai ngaia bon te kamimi!"
He reached down to scratch his thick, dark-brown forearms. A slow, deliberate movement. A light chuckle, soft as the rustle of dry leaves, escaped him. "I'm gonna be honest, I never would have seen that."
The first elder gave a faint, satisfied "Hnnn" from deep in his chest. His fingers returned to their work. The air was punctuated by a wet SQUELCH-pop as the pestle momentarily suctioned to the sticky breadfruit paste.
He leaned into the final strokes. The timber let out a faint, ancient groan under the pressure.
Beside a bure resting on its white coral stilts, Nai Teniko Kabauea knelt on a woven mat of coarse coconut leaf. The afternoon light shifted; the pale-blue drift of the coconut-husks smoke acted as a canvas, catching the stray sun-needles and turning them into shimmering pillars of ghost-light.
She sat before a shallow fire pit dug into the packed sand, ringed by blackened coral stones. There was no metal grate. Instead, the fish—freshly caught te kaku (barracuda) or te bakoa (small shark)—were wrapped tightly in green coconut leaves (te ani), the bundles secured with midrib splints. These green "packages" sat directly atop the glowing embers of coconut husks.
The noise was the gentle, persistent shhh-shhh-shhh of coconut cream bubbling within a large, polished coconut shell bowl nested in the hot ash.
Teniko used a curved Te Ibi (a shell paddle) to scoop the thick, white liquid. As she poured it over the opening of the leaf-wrapped fish, it hit the hot embers with a sharp hiss-pop, releasing a cloud of savory, fatty steam. The liquid moved with a rhythmic, heavy glug-glug.
Her hair, the color of rich obsidian, was pulled back into a tight bun, accentuating the lines of her face in quiet strength. A thin, acrid plume of smoke drifted sluggishly across her vision.
Without breaking her rhythm, Teniko made a practiced, involuntary motion—wiping the corner of her squinted eye with the back of her wrist. Her fingers, dry with salt, never touched her face. She stayed locked on the pot, her brow contracted in a mask of total concentration.
The Impact.
The fire made a low, crackling snap as a husk collapsed into white ash. The air here was different from the beach; it was thick, smelling of charred leaf, sweet cream, and the iron-rich scent of roasting fish.
Teniko was a statue of focus. From the side, her profile was etched in the gold of the dying sun, the pale-blue smoke of the husks curling around her like a protective spirit.
THUD-SLAP.
A blur of bronze skin, a sudden, blinding lens-flare as he crossed a sun-needle. Dust broke the space to her left, his chest heaving, his bare feet hitting the packed earth with violent, rhythmic strikes, disrupting the quiet cheep-cheep-cheep of the starlings.
"Mom!" he strained, the name a tight exhale.
The shout was jagged. The starling in the breadfruit leaves went silent instantly.
Teniko's hand, holding the shell paddle, froze mid-air. A single drop of white cream fell, hitting the hot stones with a tiny, aggressive hiss.
She turned her head instantly, catching the urgency in his sweat-slicked brow.
Rania Nei Kabauea faltered as she got out from the dim lit bure. She possessed the lean, agile build of her mother—broad shoulders, narrow waist, and skin the color of vibrant, sun-darkened bronze. Her hair was worn in a thick, singular braid that hung like a heavy obsidian rope down her spine.
As she walked toward their mother, her eyes locked onto Tako's expression. Her movement stopped; her head tilted slightly, catching a sharp shadow beneath her jaw. Her gaze was a silent demand: What's the rush?
"Mom, you guys have to see this," Tako panted. "I just saw a waa on the horizon. No one knows who it is, but they could be the people from Arorae."
Nai Teniko didn't look up immediately. She used the curved paddle to pour the last of the hot cream in a rhythmic, liquid glug-glug.
Then, she stood straight and rigid—a powerful move that stretched the weariness around her eyes. The heavy, voluminous fibers of her woven pandanus skirt moved with a quiet, authoritative shush.
"Tera te aro?" she asked, her voice quiet but heavy. "What an unexpected visit."
"What? They visit that quickly after our last journey?" Rania's eyes went broad.
Tako threw his hands up, a gesture of wide, childish confusion. "I don't know. Beats me."
"Wait," Teniko commanded. "I will grab a cloth to take out the bowl before the cream breaks."
She ducked into the dim interior of the bure. "Tii ngaia naba! This is unbelievable."
She reappeared an instant later, clutching a torn, oil-stained piece of marō fabric. She moved with renewed, decisive speed toward the fire.
The large, polished coconut shell bowl was nestled deep in the glowing banoi (husks). The bottom was charred black. It didn't radiate like a sun-scorched reef, but it held a deep, concentrated burn that could sear the skin to the bone in a single heartbeat.
Teniko wrapped the thick, fibrous cloth around her hand. As she gripped the shell, the moisture in the fabric hit the heat, letting out a sharp, violent SSSSS-t! She hauled the top-heavy vessel out of the pit. The boiling cream sloshed, a thick, white wave that threatened to scald, but her hand was steady as a stone as she placed it onto the timber elevated platform. A faint ring of steam sighed outward from the point of contact, smelling of charred shell and sweet, cooked fat.
Teniko threw the protective fabric casually beside it and gave Tako a quick, fixed glance.
"There we go," she said, her voice shifting into an iron command. "Let's go."
Many villagers stood at the shore, a jagged line of bronze: Freshly Scraped Coconut Meat that had begun to tan in the sun, or the Inner Husk of a young nut, the color of Dried Pandanus leaves, Damp Earth and the Darkened Heart of a mature Breadfruit trunk against the blinding white of the crushed coral sand.
Tako and his mother moved with strained urgency, their footsteps a quick, rhythmic thud-thud-thud that slowed as they reached the crowd.
The air here was different—stripped of the sweet wood-smoke and breadfruit. It was raw salt, drying kelp, and the cold, metallic tang of the open deep.
Maluma stood at the very edge of the water. He stood like a pillar of strongwood. His broad chest was puffed out, his chin tilted up to catch the glare of the sea. His hand rested on the shell necklace at his throat, his eyes scanning the waa with a cold, analytical precision. He was looking for weapons.
Tenia stood three paces behind him. She was the picture of "stilled motion." Her fingers, so fast moments ago, were now curled into tight, white-knuckled fists at her sides. Her jaw was set so hard a small muscle jumped in her cheek. She didn't look at the boat; she looked at the men, her amber eyes reflecting the "volcanic stone" of their skin with a sharp, defensive light.
Rania faltered as she reached the sand, her thick obsidian braid pulled over one shoulder as she gripped it like a lifeline. Her eyes went broad, darting from the strange red powder on the sailors to the complex knots in their rigging.
Fragments of voices washed over them: "Warriors!" ... "Tii ngaia naba! They are bad luck!"
"Sons of the deep sea," a bald older man murmured, fingers touching his own crown. "Look at their hair, stiff as coral. They look like warriors, not fishermen. Normal People don't have colored heads."
Rania stood transfixed. "But... they look like the ancestors on the Maneaba carvings! Look at the braids on that one! And the tools in their hands... so smoothly carved."
A pragmatic villager focused on a sailor's bandage. "The one with the bandage... did you see that wound? It's not a tear from a sail rope; it looks like a spear injury. They were running from a fight. That means they must have some good trade. I just hope they didn't come to cause trouble."
Tinko's knuckles turned white. "It is the stories made real. How could they have sailed so far, just four of them? And those knots in their rigging... they are too complex. They look like they've seen death up close."
Tako swallowed hard.
A strange silence fell over the shore.
broken only by the relentless slap-slap of waves against the hull remained. Every slap felt like a heartbeat.
The faces of the men came into sharp view—eyes like black glass, expressions as unreadable as stone. There was no anger, no smile, only an unsettling emptiness.
Tako looked at the four sailors. --Why the heck are they here? They are... inhuman--