The Southern Island, The Other World
23 Years Ago

The man dipped the reed into a bowl of dark blue pigment, drew symbols on the boy's lower lip, all the way down his chin, completing his work of art. The boy was only thirteen, too young to be marked permanently; but in a few years, after he completed his training, he would be—symbols etched in dark blue on his face and chest and arms. This was a rite of passage, just as that day was, for the son of a Moanian chief.

    They brought the boy out to the field, where the two people of the Southern Island had gathered themselves for the annual Peace Festival—"Kapayapaan" in the words of the Kadasan Tribe, "Rangimarie" in Moanian speak. He treaded on alongside the Tohunga, the high priest of their people, and his aides. His bare feet padded down damp grass, his eyes flitted from one ornate tent to another, in a sea of blue. He felt himself shiver in the cold dawn air, and it wasn't just the cold that made him tremble.

    "Nervous?" asked the Tohunga.

    "Yes," the boy said, more aware, more protective of the weapon strapped onto his back—an axe, its hilt carved in religious symbols, its blade of smooth pacific blue stone with dark blue veins creeping across the surface. But there was this strange excitement to this, his first commemoration ceremony, yet it scared him all the same.

    "You have trained well," assured the Tohunga, smiling down at the boy, "as your kaiako tells me and your father. You move swiftly, noiselessly. You swing your axe with precision, seemingly without effort."

    "I train to the best of my abilities," said the boy, proudly. "I train for hours over. I want to be a great warrior like my father and my blood brothers."

    "I see," said the Tohunga. "But let not pride blind you. You must stay focused, alert, and remember everything your kaiako has taught you whilst you fight. And, Toa"—the Tohunga smiled—"make our people proud."

    "I will," said the boy Toa. The sun rose over the horizon, scattering its golden light into the purple and orange sky. The boy looked to his left, and gazed at the sunup for a moment. "I will."

Awiyao stood at the front of the crowd, next to his father, the tribal leader of their people. Breathe in, breathe out. Two men, elders—one of the Kadasan Tribe, the other a Moanian—walked over to the crater that lay between the two peoples.

    Awiyao did not want this, but there was no other choice. It was tradition that the son of the tribal leader (or the son of an elder in absence of a prince), from the age of thirteen onwards, must participate in the commemoration ceremony at least once, without excuse, without his approval or disapproval.

    His hand travelled down to the scar on his upper arm, the mark the second-born Moanian prince had etched on his skin the prior year, his first commemoration ceremony. He was thirteen then, weaker than the sixteen-year-old Moanian prince. One must be defeated, one must draw blood—a reminder of the tragedy of war between both tribes, a reminder of the many lives lost in battle—now the real purpose lost in an annual form entertainment. Now fourteen, he had trained hard through the year after his public defeat. But he still did not want this, not at all.

    The elder from the Kadasan Tribe began to speak: "People, of the Kadasan Tribe and the Moana Tribe—"

    "—welcome to the Peace Festival," continued the elder from the Moana Tribe, "'Rangimarie' in Moanian tongue—"

    "'—known to us Kadasan as 'Araw ng Kapayapaan'."

    "The festival that commemorates the ten-year war—"

    "—the ten-year strife—"

    "—the ten-year bloodshed between the Moana Tribe of the plains and seas—"

    "—and the Kadasan Tribe of the Golot Mountains of the Southern Island."

    "Each wanted to rule the other."

    "Each defended their own against the other."

    "Until fire fell from the heavens—"

    "—right here in this very crater we stand on."

    "And the voice of Elohim spake through the fire."

    " 'Why does brother fight against brother? Why do you defile the land with bloodshed?' "

    "And it was then that weapons were lowered—"

    "—that weapons were dropped to the ground among the slain."

    "And with the voice of Elohim, from then on, there was no war—"

    "—no strife—"

    "—no bloodshed between the Moana Tribe—

    "—and the Kadasan Tribe."

    Silence, then the sound of horns on both sides of the field, from the sea of blue, from the people bathed in red.

    The elder of the Kadasan Tribe went on: "The festival begins with the commemoration ceremony."

    "People of the Moana Tribe."

    "People of the Kadasan Tribe."

    "Bring forth your champions."

    Awiyao felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up. His father, dressed in an ornate woven red and black loincloth and vest, patted his son, and said, "Do our tribe proud, Awiyao."

    "Yes, Itay," Awiyao managed to say.

    And with that, he moved forward. He didn't want this, he never wanted this—but what choice did he have, as the chief's only son?

    He made his way to the edge of the crater, and took his steps, descending slightly, till he reached the center. And there before him stood the two elders—and a boy wearing the traditional Moanian blue and white kilt and shoulder cape, the tan skin of his arms, chest, and face marked with dark blue symbols. Awiyao expected to see a boy, but this boy he never expected, did not recognize, had never seen in his life.

    "Awiyao," announced the elder of the Kadasan Tribe. "Son of Dag-iw, chief of the Kadasan Tribe."

    "Toa," introduced the Moanian elder. "Youngest son of Kamaka, chief of the Moana Tribe."

    So that's why I've never seen you before, thought Awiyao, watching as the other boy's chest heaved up and down. He was just as nervous as he was, Awiyao thought. But there was a strange look in his eyes—a mingle of fear and . . . excitement, determination, confidence even. Look at this madman.

    A boy, was all Toa can think of. A boy like me.

    "Champions," announced the Kadasan elder.

    "Ready your weapons," instructed the Moanian elder.

Awiyao reached for the dagger strapped to his side. Toa pulled his axe out of its sheath. Awiyao took his stance, knife raised. Toa stood firm to the ground, holding his axe out before him.

The elders stepped back, slowly, up the slope, out of the crater. Then—

"Fight!"

Awiyao yelled his battle cry. Toa widened his eyes till they seemed to bulge out of their sockets, stuck his tongue out in a manner that provoked than played, the guttural sound that rose up his throat and out of his open mouth unheard amid the wave of noise washing over the crater, resounding through the field.

The audience yelled and chanted and danced and struck the ends of their spears against the earth. This was the song of a fight, the music of war.

The boys circled around the crater, weapons held out before them. But they couldn't go on like this for long, going around in circles, waiting for someone to—

Toa ran head on, his radiant blue eyes on no one else but Awiyao. The swing of an axe, and Awiyao dodged the blow, rolling in the dirt. He quickly stretched a leg out, knocking Toa off his feet, the Moanian boy falling onto the ground. Awiyao jumped up to stand, lunged forward, ready to strike. But Toa raised his axe just in time to block his dagger midway, tangling his legs with his opponent's. Awiyao fell, losing his grip on his dagger. Toa rose up, hovering over Awiyao's form. But he didn't catch sight of Awiyao grasping one of two sticks strapped to his side, and before Toa realized this, in one fluid motion, Awiyao pulled a stick out, struck the boy on the head. Toa staggered back, one hand on his forehead; Awiyao pulled himself back up onto his feet, grabbed his dagger off the ground.

For a moment, they stood a distance apart, still, panting, weapons raised. Awiyao caught sight of a red mark on Toa's forehead, the kind of blow that would produce a good bruise. Awiyao smiled.

And with that, the Kadasan boy ran forward. Toa waited, smiled even, without the other's notice. And when Awiyao came close enough, Toa slid onto the floor, struck his opponent's lower shin with the butt of his axe. Awiyao plummeted down to the ground, searing pain shooting through his ankle and where the edge of the axe hit him. He glanced down, at his leg. He was sure he twisted something in the fall. But there was no escape now, no way to flee the fight without bringing shame to his people.

    Awiyao looked up, let out a breath of air. He tightened his grip round the knife in one hand; the stick, in the other. He breathed in, hoisted himself up on his forearms, the rough surface beneath digging into his skin. He tried to pull himself up to stand, clenching his teeth out of pain . . .

    Then he felt the cold edge of Toa's axe touch his neck.

    Awiyao didn't need to look anywhere else, didn't have any second thoughts as to what was happening. He could hear the Moanians raise their voices, cheering, chanting, demanding that their prince draw blood. He knew he was done, the sure defeat, the jade blade pressed against his skin, yet not pressed hard enough to cut. Not just yet, he thought.

    "Draw his blood!" the Moanians yelled, again and again. "Make him bleed!"

    The Kadasan Tribe was silent, tense. Awiyao was no longer surprised if his father turned away that moment, wishing to see nothing of his son's defeat—not out of love or deep care or even pity, but out of humiliation. Just as he did the last time, just as Awiyao witnessed with his own eyes.

    "You know I could not cut you there," said Toa.

    "I know," uttered Awiyao in response. And with that, the knife and the stick dropped gracelessly to the crater floor.

    "Up," said the Moanian boy. "Kneel."

    Awiyao rose slowly, the axe blade following his neck, till their eyes met—azure blue staring back at deep red irises, the tidal wave of an ocean dancing with a forest fire in the dead of night.

    A boy, Toa thought to himself. A boy like me. The corners of his mouth turned up in a triumphant grin. This would be easy.

    His people kept demanding—blood, blood, blood. Their voices echoed around him, their chants closing in on him like waves.

    Toa looked up and smiled, basking in the praise of his people, in his future glory. Time to end this. Time to claim victory. Time to make his people proud. And so he looked down at the Kadasan boy, and saw—how his opponent's eyes dimmed in fear, how he trembled as the blade lingered on his neck. A boy like you, something whispered to him. A boy like you.

    The Moanian boy took a deep breath in, understanding what it meant. He knew the consequences. Yet he drew the axe away from the Kadasan boy's neck, lay it on the crater floor. And he kneeled, slowly, and bowed, his head pressed down on one knee.

Now a wave of silence swept over the Moanians, just as voices rose up from the Kadasan Tribe, chanting, "Blood! Blood! Blood!"

    Awiyao stared wide eyed at the kneeling form of his Moanian opponent, still and quiet. And so he picked up his knife, the uproar of the Kadasan people reverberating through the field.

    Now was his chance.

    "Blood! Blood! Blood!"

He raised his dagger, intending to slash this boy where his brother had cut him. A wound for a wound, shame for shame. He positioned the point of the blade over the boy's skin, ready to cut. And just then, as metal came into contact with flesh, Awiyao felt his scar burn into his arm—a reminder, a message. He moved the weapon away from the Moanian boy, his arm sliding down to hang limp at his side, leaving the other boy unscathed, and he remained still, the voices of his people telling him to move, to strike, to cut fading into the void.

A new voice whispered in the quiet.

Awiyao listened, and soon he understood. Yet he shut his eyes out of fear, and didn't move.

    Mercy, it whispered in his ear. Mercy.

    And with that, Awiyao set his weapon down on the ground, and knelt with one knee forward. He breathed in, knowing the repercussions, and bowed his head in surrender.

    The final decision.

    And it was then, and only then, that the two tribes of the Southern Island were of one mind. And it was only then that the Peace Festival held this strange moment of silence, where the people were truly quiet, save their thoughts.

The man held a wooden rod. He breathed in, lifted it up. The wooden rod swept through the air, and struck the bare back of a boy. The impact, a swift, direct hit, resounded in the quiet air, and the boy winced in pain, unable to move—his arms wrapped around the narrow trunk of a tree, his hands bound together by rope on the other side.

    "I'm sorry, Papa. I'm sorry," Toa cried moments back, as his father struck him once, twice, thrice . . . then the boy lost count, lost focus on the numbers, his thoughts replaced with only those of pain and a personal injustice.

    He was too old for this, too old to be punished like a child. But what he had done shamed him, his father, and his people. He deserved this, his father said.

    The Moanian chief stepped back, took a deep breath in. Then he moved forward, the rod in his hand sailing down, colliding against the boy's sore back for a final time.

    The last surge of pain, then the beating stopped. Yet tears still rolled down his face, quiet and unceasing.

    The boy sensed movement near him: his eldest blood brother walked around the tree, shooting Toa a glance, muttering, "Should have drawn that Kadasan boy's blood when you had the chance." Toa felt his brother untie the rope that bound him to the tree, releasing him. Then he sunk down to the ground, a crumpled figure on the grass-strewn ground.

"Get up," he could hear his father say behind him. "Get up." Toa felt a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn around. "Only the weak cry, Toa. As a man of the Moana Tribe, you shall show no vulnerability, no weakness. We are warriors, Toa. Now wipe those tears away ere others see you. You should embarrass us no longer."

Toa sniffled, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand.

"We must go now," said his father, turning his back to him, glancing up at the sky. "Daylight is fading. We must return to camp ere night befalls upon us." And with that, the chief and his sons moved away from the edge of the forest, walking in silence to the sea of blue tents, to their people.

Behind them, Toa glared at their backs, tears still streaming down his face, his hands clenched into fists.

You should embarrass us no longer.

Those words did the trick. And if only his father knew, Toa, when provoked, was reckless.

    "I hope you learned a valuable lesson today," said the Moanian chief, as he and his sons entered the camp. "No one defies tradition, Toa. No Moanian shows even the slightest act of betrayal against his own tribe, in favor of those Mountain People. Do I make myself clear, Toa?"

    The boy said nothing.

    "Do I make myself clear?" repeated Chief Kamaka, louder this time.

    "Papa," said his eldest son, a tinge of panic in his voice. "Toa is not with us."

    The chief turned around, his eyes wide in fervent search of his youngest son.

    "Toa!" His father's voice called out to him, faint in the distance, yet furious without a doubt. "Toa!"

    But Toa didn't stop, sprinting deeper into the trees, farther from the edge of the woods, farther from his father and the Moanian camp. Tears still rolled down his face, and he quickly wiped them away, never breaking his pace even for a breath. He ran straight on, fueled by anger, without a particular destination in mind. He wanted to be alone, and in that moment, that's all he needed.

    Toa could no longer hear his father's voice. The music of the forest now filled his ears—leaves rustling in the wind, the songs of the birds singing up in the canopies, the whisper of his footfalls padding down the forest floor. His limbs were tired, and his lungs craved for normal breathing. So he no longer ran, but strode his way through the forest, in search of a destination, a place to stay whilst this burning fire within simmered down. Then to his surprise, he noticed the trees begin to thin out. Perhaps a clearing is near, the boy thought. So he walked on.

    The sky above was a warm, vibrant orange now, the last of the day's sunlight falling through the gaps in the canopies and between the trees. The ground beneath Toa's feet was sloping down as he walked further, his steps careful in the sunset shadows. A few more trees appeared up ahead, and beyond that, partly obstructed by the silhouettes of trunks, was a lake. Toa moved closer, excited to have finally found his resting place.

    But something caught his eye, then. A stocky figure sat on the stone pier, a staff in hand.

    Toa wanted to be alone, and he thought that was what he needed. But he knew, for some sadistic reason, that fate had brought them together once again. And there was no escaping this.

    He walked over to the stone pier, sat next to the boy. The other boy shot him a glance. Toa noticed, and did the same. And for a long while, neither of them said anything, their eyes fixed on the lake and its waters reflecting the flames that painted the sky. Silence, then, "I did not see you after the ninth hour," Toa went on to say.

    "That's because I did not stay any longer," said Awiyao. He turned to Toa, and said, "You do not know me, Moanian, so I'll tell you this: I have a sharp mind. I know what to do when bad things happen. For instance, I escaped my father's wrath long ere he could act upon it. Once the healer was done with my leg, once he gave me this staff, I asked if I could relieve myself. So I ran off into forest—"

    "You mean you limped into the forest with a walking stick," quipped Toa, nodding to the staff in the boy's hand.

    "I ran off, I limped—what relevance do you find in my manner of escape? The point is, I did not return for the remainder of the ceremony; hence, you did not see me. My father is looking for me now, I know it. But too bad, I'm all the way here, far away from him and the rope he intends to whip me with as punishment for my defeat and what I did in the commemoration ceremony." Then Awiyao smirked, and chuckled. "Looks like you were looking for me."

    "I only noticed your absence," responded Toa. "After today's commemoration ceremony, you'll be difficult to forget."

    "I can say the same about you," said Awiyao. "You're a fool, you know that? A fool for forfeiting a sure victory." He shook his head in mocking disapproval. "I was down on the ground, rendered useless by a leg injury—a leg injury you caused, I must say. You had your axe to my neck ere I had the chance to rise, so I dropped my weapons. I knew I would lose then and there. Then you, a fool, held back, and surrendered instead."

    "I wish to ask you the same question." Toa smirked, the kind that would make the other person nervous—brace for impact. "I surrendered, yes. And you were so close to victory. So close. All you had to do was pick up your dagger, run it across my flesh, then you would have won, then and there. You, however—no, you did something else. You picked up your dagger, poked my arm without pressure—I felt that, I simply did not move.—then you surrendered as well." He chuckled. "You're a fool, you know that, Kadasan? You're a fool for forfeiting a sure victory."

    Awiyao chuckled, gripping his staff tighter. "You know I have a weapon in my very hand, don't you, boy?"

    "And should that scare me?" asked Toa, smirking. "I'm not the one with an injured leg."

    And just like that, laughter erupted from both boys, reverberating in the quiet.

    Against a tapestry painted layers of orange, pink, and indigo, the sinking sun and a shy full moon listened in on this secret conversation, occasional laughter rising up to the heavens. Then the sun soon went to sleep, the vibrant colors dissipating in its absence; and, in its place, moonlight guided two kindred spirits through the pathways in the dark, brothers walking side by side beneath the shadows of the forest.

    "Don't you find it strange, Awiyao?" contemplated Toa.

    With one arm draped around Toa's shoulders, Awiyao limped beside his new friend, his other hand striking the end of his staff against the earth with each step. "What?"

    "This Peace Festival," said Toa, "and how everyone else feigns this entire celebration. I mean to say," he clarified, catching a glimpse of Awiyao's bewildered expression beneath the moonlight, "there's no pretense when it comes to the excitement of it, the preparations. But our people, both yours and mine, have lost the true meaning of it."

    Awiyao chuckled. "Hypocrites. That's what we are, what our people have become. We celebrate 'peace' in festivities and cruel commemoration ceremonies. Yet, beneath it all, there is no real peace, a mask of a celebration concealing the truth—hostility between our people, indifference, discrimination." He sighed, striking the end of his spear against the forest floor, taking another step forward. "If only they knew . . . "

"If only they knew what they were doing," muttered Toa.

"Not what I meant," said Awiyao. "Not precisely. Although I agree. If they knew what really it was they were doing, they might have done things differently."

A moment's silence, then, "So what was it you really meant?" asked Toa, glancing over to his Kadasan friend.

"If only they knew." A pause, a strike to the earth, a step over a root jutting out of the ground and into the path. "If only my people and your people knew they're not so different, after all. If only they saw each other the way we saw each other in the latter part of the commemoration ceremony, or with the perspective in which we saw each other by the lake at sunset. A boy like me, a boy like you—with fears and dreams and laughter and"—Awiyao smiled at the thought—"friendship, kindred spirits, brotherhood."

A smile crept across Toa's face.

"When I become chief," Awiyao went on, "I wish to abolish the commemoration ceremony, encourage our people to associate themselves with your people, without hostility, without discrimination."

"Half the field no longer a sea of blue, the other half no longer a sea of red," envisaged Toa, smiling. "No chasm to keep us apart, and in its place, a blissful chaos of both tribes spread over the field, speaking with one another, laughing by the fires, my people sharing feasts with your people, and your people doing the same."

"A real Peace Festival," remarked Awiyao.

But the smile faded off Toa's face, and he said, "But I'm not next in line. After my father dies, or if my father is too old to carry on with his duties, it is my eldest blood brother who shall take his place as chief. Not me." He sighed. "Yet I wish to change this as much as you do."

"Then talk him into it," encouraged Awiyao. "Persuade him, Toa. For the future of both our sons, for the future of both our peoples. Look," he said, facing Toa, pausing in his steps. Toa halted as well. "If this pretense of peace goes on, in the face of the slightest misunderstanding, we are more likely to be at war with each other again. And I doubt I can bring myself to kill you after tonight."

"I cannot bring myself to kill you, either, brother." Toa sighed, glancing up at the full moon hanging above them, then to the forest floor beneath his feet. Then he turned his attention back to Awiyao, and he said, "I doubt it will be easy: my father and my brothers do not take me seriously, for I am the youngest, a mere child in their eyes. But I will try, Awiyao. I will try."

    Awiyao smiled. "You promise?"

    "I promise."

    "Awiyao!" called another voice, from the shadows. Whoever it was began to walk over to them, his identity concealed in the dark.

    Frightened, the boys stumbled back, Awiyao lifting his staff to use as a weapon, shifting all his weight onto Toa, to his new friend's slight annoyance. Inadvertently, the staff struck a bush midway, waking up a swarm of fluoraflies that lit up in an array of colors, spinning their wings into the air around them. An old man in a red and black woven cloak stood a few feet away, his wrinkled face illuminated by fluorafly light. Awiyao recognized him immediately, and a nervous smile crept across his face, and he said, "Good evening, Babaylan. Pleasant surprise to see you here."

But the Babaylan said nothing, the expression on his face grave. Awiyao opened his mouth to speak again, but the spiritual leader cut him off with, "Give me no excuses, no objections, Awiyao. Do not even think of escaping again. Your father has been searching for you, and he is furious. We must head back to the camp, now." Then his eyes darted to the boy beside the Kadasan prince. "And you Moanian," he said to Toa, "what harm have you done to the prince's—"

"He's helping me walk back to the camp, Babaylan," said Awiyao. "He did not hurt me."

    "Yes," muttered Toa, growing more impatient, more irate by the second. "But I suppose it wouldn't be a bad idea to put that staff down to use as your walking stick again, becauseyou'reheavierthanIamandyourweightiscrushingmybones."

In a second of a heartbeat, Awiyao held the staff upright, its end planted back down on the ground, shifting his weight off of Toa's shoulders. "My apologies."

Toa let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

The Babaylan didn't seem pleased, nor did he look amused. But before any of them could say another word, Toa felt a hand on his shoulder, and a new voice said, "I'll take care of Toa, and bring him back to our camp. He will cause no more trouble for you."

Toa looked back and up, his eyes meeting the Tohunga's austere gaze. He was in as much trouble as Awiyao was, he knew.

Awiyao spoke up, then: "I assure you Toa did not cause us any trouble, at all. He was helping me walk through—"

"Enough," said the Babaylan. "We should waste no more time over useless talk. We must go now, Awiyao. And hurry."

Awiyao responded with an exasperated grunt, and limped over to the Kadasan elder.

    Toa simply stood back, watching his new friend walk farther away, until the Tohunga patted his shoulder and said, "Come now, Toa. The hour is late. It's best not to keep your family waiting." And with that, the Moanian prince turned around without a word, taking a few steps alongside the Tohunga before—

"Toa!"

Without a beat passed, Toa turned back to face the Kadasan boy and the Babaylan, who too had stopped in their tracks. The fluorafly light had now grown dim, yet the light of the full moon shone down on them, bright enough for Toa to see Awiyao's mischievous smile, a patch of red light moving up across his friend's face.

Then Awiyao said. "You better keep your promises, boy."

Toa chuckled, returned his smile. "As long as you keep yours, brother."