In the sickly gloom, the brothers weren't just terrified; they were a dry snapping of panicked men. Their movements were jerky, desperate, like puppets dancing on tangled strings. A shadow closed in—not like a ghost, but like a physical weight, a thick blanket of ink that felt colder than the surrounding night.
Konto's desperation was a rhythmic violence. He lowered his head toward the binding rope, grinding his neck against the timber, his movements blurred and fast. His skin flared red against the rough sennit, the friction sounding like a saw through bone. "Come on, man!" he hissed through gritted teeth.
Tambo's terror was more primitive. He watched the heavy shadow pool around his ankles, climbing his shins like rising water. "Aaah!! Someone help!!"
"Help!! Aaah!!!" Their voices collided in the small space, a frantic, helpless vibration.
Then, the air in the room died.
The bronze-legged man's voice crawled into the space. It sounded like a trapped eel thrashing in a bucket. It didn't flow; it struck the brothers' ears with a dull, heavy slap-slap-slap—a "wet masonry" sound. The frequency was so wrong it made Konto's own tongue feel brittle and thin, as if it might shatter if he tried to swallow.
The "scream" that erupted from the bronze-legged man was a crash of vowels.
"Lul-lul-LA-GA... T-T-T-Sinking... The marrow is... P-P-P-Pork... The salt is 'L-L-L-Loud' in the 'S-S-S-Small' of the... B-B-B-Basket!"
It wasn't a voice born in a throat. It was the sound of dry branch wood snapping behind a wall of cold, oily sweat.
"M-M-M-Melt... The ancestors are 'F-F-F-Folding' the 'D-D-D-Decimal'... I am the 'S-S-S-Surplus Unit!"
Konto's cry was dry. His vocal cords were stretched so tight they wanted to snap the sound before it could leave his mouth. "Noo... ohhhh. Noo. I don't want to die, please!"
Suddenly, the voice vanished. Thump-thump-thump—distant footsteps thundered against the coral outside. The woman's shadow and the bronze-legged man evaporated as if they were never there, leaving only the smell of salt and old sweat behind.
The thatch rustled as a villager broke through, his chest heaving. "What?! Why were you screaming?"
The brothers looked at him, their eyes wide and bloodshot in the dark. Tambo gestured with his chin, his neck muscles corded with tension. "There was an ugly shadow that was coming to kill us!"
The villager's breathing softened, his face narrowing in confusion. "A shadow?"
"Yes!" Konto's words tumbled out like spilled stones. "It was right here seconds ago, and a crazy guy outside making scary noises!"
The villager paused. The silence of the woods seemed to press against the thatch. He spoke softly. "Shadows don't move on their own."
"You would be surprised," Tambo whispered, his voice shivering.
The man shrugged it off, a dismissive flick of the shoulders that didn't match the fear in the room. "Never mind that for now. We gotta move." He knelt, his fingers fumbling with the knots, and untied Konto's sennit.
"Do people here realize this place is full of bad spirits?" Konto asked, his mind scanning the dark.
The villager tilted his head, his breathing heavy. "I'm afraid there are now. There are crazy people in these woods currently trying to kill you."
"What? But why?" Tambo asked as the moonlight caught the sweat on his brow.
"That is what I don't know." The man's hands were hasty and imprecise, but he successfully untied the second brother.
Tambo rubbed the raw, red skin where the sennit had bit into his flesh. He stood up slowly, his muscles stiff and unyielding like cured meat. "Where do we go?"
"To the village. They will keep an eye on you there."
Moments later, the trio cut through the thick humidity under the palms and breadfruit trees. The villager led the way, his rama torch casting a flickering, orange heat against the jagged fronds. Konto followed, his movements skeletal and guarded, while Tambo anchored the rear. The only sounds were the wind licking the fire and the sharp, rhythmic crunch of footsteps on the coral.
The villager glanced back at their slow progress. "Can't you guys walk a bit faster?"
Konto met his gaze with a sharp sneer, his face a map of exhaustion. "Tchhh. What kind of question is that? Can't you see we are literally dying bodies? Never saw a skinny person before?"
The man's face shifted into an unsure grimace. "No, not skinny as you. This is the first time we saw anything like this."
Konto's mouth fell open in a weak 'oh' of surprise. "Is that so?" He flicked his head toward the silent figure behind him. "Did you hear that, Tambo?"
Tambo's response was a low vibration in his chest. "Hm."
"He said 'it's the first time we saw anything like this,'" Konto chuckled weakly.
The villager kept his head turned sideways to navigate the path. "Well, we have only known a focused circle of groups our whole lives. Nauru is our closest neighbor. We call them 'The-Kin-Of-The-High-Stone.' Then there are the Arorae people—the 'Low-Sand-Dwellers.' They are the only places we can visit, and they visit us."
Konto gaped silently, processing the geography. "Those are quite some weird labels for your neighbors, bud."
The villager produced a soft chuckle. "I know it can be strange for outsiders, but it's our culture to name the ones earning of our respect. They aren't just labels; they are the Land-Body as our kin."
Konto exhaled, a sound like dry air escaping a bellows. "Well. I guess those Maka drinks were a total brain-shutter, am I right Tambo?"
Tambo's hum was identical to the first. "Hm."
"We're almost there," the villager urged as village lights began to bleed through the leaves.
Konto gripped his wrists in annoyance. "Oh man. Don't these people know how to tie a knot? My hands are all red."
"We can add some Te Itai oil on it when we get there," the villager replied. "We make the greatest medicines. Te-Noni can heal any wound. That one—"
Suddenly, the torch dimmed. The villager's head jerked in a spasm of rigidity.
Tambo looked up. The failing light caught his dark orbits, and in a heartbeat, the wet gleam of his eyes turned to masonry. The transformation was a soundless, high-pressure shift—his skin, his hair, and his malo cloth all fused into smooth, polished stone.
Konto recoiled, his joints locking as his heart hammered against his ribs. "Tambo!" He reached out, his warm fingers meeting the impossible cold of the statue. "Tambo! Nooo!!!!" He turned to the villager, his face a mask of hopelessness. "Why is my life so shitty?!"
As the words left him, the grey rot claimed him. His features froze into a permanent look of despair, his body becoming a heavy, mineral weight anchored to the coral.
The villager's lungs finally found air. "Aaaah!!!" The scream was a jagged edge that echoed across the whole rama-lit village.