The Golot Mountains, The Southern Island, Crystalline
20 Years Ago

Hours before the attack

In the small hours of the morning, Awiyao lay in the dark, turning beneath the blanket draped over him, his eyes shut, everything else quiet save his mind.

    He was dreaming, and in his dream he was watching their village burn, the huts engulfed in flames. Women and children running from the chaos, only for mothers to be stabbed in the gut, only for children to be swiftly decapitated by the same blades that took their mothers' lives, red staining the smooth polished surfaces of steel. The men of Kadasan fought, and they fought well, fought as they had been trained to fight since childhood. But the adversary seemed to outnumber them, like a swarm of insects invading every inch of a vast field, devouring every grain and leaf they could lay their eyes on.

And Awiyao stood in the midst of it all, helpless and unmoving, invisible to everyone, kin and enemy, a ghost bound to the patch of earth beneath his feet.

Then someone somewhere called out, "Chief Dag-iw! Chief Dag-iw!"

Awiyao woke to find himself back in their family's hut, lying on his sleeping mat, one hand resting upon the cool bamboo split flooring. Someone had lit the stove, fire burning on a heap of coals and pine weeds and logs within a circle of rocks set in the middle of the hut. He could hear voices nearby, a conversation ongoing, the stream of their words quick, urgent, scared even.

Something didn't feel right about this.

Curious, Awiyao propped himself up on his elbows, eyes falling upon the scene of three men speaking to his father, who had sat up on his mat. He recognized each of them in the firelight—his uncle, the leader of Kadasan's warriors, a large taut brown man whose long dark hair flowed down his back; next to him, an old man who had served the Kadasan people as an elder since the time of his grandfather as chief; and the Babaylan, a tall thin man whose age and wisdom showed in his silver hair and silver beard.

They were still speaking as Awiyao's mother walked over to the men and sat beside her husband on his mat; still talking as Awiyao pulled the blanket off himself and took a few steps toward them.

All Awiyao could catch from their conversation were the mention of a man, likely a messenger, from the foot of the Golot Mountains, an only one and no one else, a need to speak with the elders, with the chief, with the people.

    Chief Dag-iw stood from his mat, his wife rising beside him. "Tell the man and the others we shall meet at the center of the village," he said, putting on his vest. "And have the umalohokan wake everyone, tell all the people to gather by the bonfire. If this is true, then we must move quickly, before it is too late."

    Awiyao watched as his mother handed his father his cloak, his father draping the woven fabric over his shoulders. Then Chief Dag-iw turned to his son, and said, "I think you must have heard what they said, Awiyao. Put on your vest and your cloak, and perhaps arm yourself as well. A man from the Kadasan lowlands wishes to speak to us all. And waste no time: they say a threat looms on the horizon. We must hurry."

A large bonfire burned bright in the darkness. The umalohokan had done what they had been told to do, to wake the people of the village, their announcement echoing through every house and field, reaching every family, every ear. The people had now gathered themselves at the center of the village, standing in a circle surrounding the blaze, firelight spilling onto faces clearly disturbed from their nightly rest, faces that gave off an air of curiosity and trepidation, collective murmurs resounding to a cacophony of voices.

The elders stood closest to the flame in a half-circle, listening as the voices died down at the sight of men coming forward, all eyes turning toward a group of Kadasan warriors escorting a man unfamiliar to them all.

Awiyao stood with his mother amongst the crowd, at a distance where both the stranger and the group of elders were directly within sight. And as the man and his escorts stepped forward in brisk strides, Awiyao noticed he was young, perhaps a few years older than he was, noticed the wounds etched upon the lowlander's face and arms and legs, crusts of dried blood tainting his skin; one leg limped where an ugly gash had been cut across his ankle. Yet the man moved quickly, each stride determined and urgent, as though the pain were nothing to hinder him from wanting to speak with the elders.

    The second he came before the elders, Chief Dag-iw said, "Speak."

    "Chief Dag-iw," the stranger began, "elders of the Kadasan tribe, my brothers and sisters. Here I stand before you, the lone survivor of an onslaught against our people of the lowlands. A sudden attack from the people beyond the sea has left some of our women and children spared, but all the men they have put to death, save I. I escaped from the enemy's hold as they slew our brethren before our eyes. A few of my brothers had attempted to escape with me; in fact we worked together to set ourselves free. Yet it is to my great sorrow that they had been caught quickly and killed the instant the enemy laid their hands on them again. Despite how brief a time I was their prisoner, I had learned enough."

    A pause, and the man turned to the people surrounding the fire.

    "Listen all, for what I am about to say I have heard from their very mouths. The enemy intends to attack your village next, knowing your village is the largest of the Kadasan Tribe, knowing the War Chief, the strongest and most powerful of our leaders—Chief Dag-iw—dwells here. They intend to behead your beloved chief and keep his head with them as they go through the other villages, a symbol to instigate fear to our brothers and sisters of the mountains, proof that they have no other choice but to surrender."

    At this, the murmurs once again reverberated through the crowd, a cacophony louder than it was before the man spoke. And Awiyao stood paralyzed in utter fear, his head light, feeling his own body float untethered to the ground beneath his feet, as though he were falling yet suspended in nothingness. He then heard a whimper beside him, and turned to find his mother weeping, her eyes fixed on her husband. With one trembling hand, he reached out and held his mother's hand, pulling her small form toward himself in a half-embrace.

    "With Chief Dag-iw's head to prove your defeat," the stranger was saying, "they find no urgent need to attack our Kadasan brethren next. As I have said, they expect a surrender from the rest of the villages, not knowing the fight in our Kadasan spirit, and this weakness they perceive, this the enemy is gravely mistaken. However, we must still beware, for by what I have gathered, they seem to know who our leaders are. They seem to know our villages, know which are smaller, more vulnerable, know which are stronger, know which have more men to fight back. And they know that if Chief Dag-iw were killed, the proof of him slain would still strike a certain fear into the hearts of everyone else, this we cannot deny—"

    "You have said the enemy has no intention to attack the other Kadasan villages right after us," interrupted Awiyao's uncle, leader of the Kadasan warriors. "Then tell us, if you know, what does the adversary plan to do next?"

    "I have heard they intend to head south," said the man, "and attack the Moanians after the defeat they wish upon you; they intend to conquer the entire Southern Island as soon as they possibly could, beginning with the largest and most powerful of communities on the Island to the smallest and most vulnerable."

The murmurs had now grown to a full roar of panic and alarm and anger that surrounded the bonfire as it burned on, illumining the expressions of terror upon the people's faces in crimson light.

"Then we must move quickly," Chief Dag-iw said. "We must prepare ourselves before the enemy comes: all men must arm themselves; we must evacuate all the women and children . . ."

Awiyao felt a hand on his shoulder, then, and turned to find the Babaylan standing next to him. How the Babaylan had managed to slip out of the circle of elders and into the front of the crowd, Awiyao hadn't noticed, and perhaps no one else did in this chaos.

    "Fas-ang," the Babaylan said, addressing Awiyao's mother, the tone in his voice grave. "It is time. The prophecy has begun."

    With that, Awiyao's mother lifted her son's arm off her shoulder, and looked Awiyao in the eye. "You must go with the Babaylan," she said, as new tears brimmed her eyes, careened down her face. "He will keep you safe. You must be kept safe . . ."

    "Inay," said Awiyao, puzzlement clouding his features, "I do not understand. I am a man, I must fight against this enemy, with Itay and Tiyo and—"

    "In time you will save us all, Awiyao," said his mother, cutting him off. "That is why you must be kept safe, away from the reach of the enemy. Trust me, Awiyao, I speak the truth. The Babaylan has known this for years, and so does your itay."

    "Will you leave with me, Inay?" Awiyao asked, clasping his mother's hands. "Will you be kept safe with me and the Babaylan?"

    His mother shook her head, a sob escaping her throat. "No, Awiyao. It is my duty as the chief's wife to lead the women and children to safety, and I shan't burden you."

    "No, no. Inay! No!" Awiyao's grip tightened round his mother's trembling hands. "My mind will never be at peace as long as you are here, as long as enemy forces are against our tribe. Please, Inay, come with us, come with me."

    His mother cupped his large face with one hand, her thumb wiping a tear that streamed down his face. "Listen to me, Awiyao. You are the only hope our people have now. The enemy is after your life as much as they are after your itay's. Yet even if your father were killed in battle"—another sob, a swipe at her eyes, her voice breaking more and more with each word—"even if your father were killed, our people have you to redeem us, in Elohim's time. Hence, you must seek refuge in Sanctuarium till our time of redemption comes. You must leave by the manaul, and the Babaylan shall be your guide, and you shall take flight and—"

"Inay, I can't leave you . . ."

His mother wept as she pulled her hands out of his grasp, sobbing uncontrollably. Then she said, in her broken voice, "Mahal kita, anak. Mahal na mahal kita. It is with my deepest love for you that I am letting you go, and for the love of our people I urge you to escape, to flee."

"They are here!" An umalohokan came running toward the bonfire and the circle of elders, the crowd parting for his passage through. He yelled those words again: "They are here! The enemy is here! The watchmen have caught sight of fire and movement at the border of the village! They are here! Prepare yourselves. The enemy is here!"

    A hand gripped Awiyao's shoulder. "Awiyao, we must go," said the Babaylan, pulling him away from his mother.

    "No. No! Inay! Inay!"

    "You must leave now, my son," she said, giving him a sad smile, tears streaming down her face, "and save yourself. When the time you comes, you shall redeem us, and we will see each other again."

    The grip on Awiyao's shoulder tightened, the Babaylan pulling him back, forcing him to move. Yet Awiyao fought against his pull, reaching out to his mother. "Inay! Inay!"

    "Farewell, anak."

    "No! Inay! Inay!"

Awiyao felt something smooth and soft and warm shield him like a blanket. The earth lay beneath him, grass-strewn, dew smearing the side on which he lay. Behind him he could feel, he could hear, the rhythm of a large heart beating beneath layers of plumage, flesh, and bone. He could hear and feel Mayari's warm breath as she turned to him, having felt him stir beneath her wing.

Awiyao opened his eyes, looked up to meet the manaul's, ever wise and feral and strangely loving in her own way. The morning sun shone upon them, bathing this part of the forest—wherever this place was—in bright daylight.

The second he looked into those orbs, he remembered. He pushed his way out of the shelter of Mayari's wing, scrambling up to his feet. The manaul screeched in surprise, raising the wing Awiyao had slept under. Yet the boy paid her no mind, paid no mind to the harsh sting that rose in his knuckles, as he rushed over to the Babaylan who sat nearby, one hand reaching for a heap of nuts and berries placed upon a large leaf.

"Are you well rested now?" asked the Babaylan, without looking up.

"I thought we were in a hurry," Awiyao said. "You shouldn't have let me slept—"

"I believe there is a difference between one deliberately sleeping on account of one's mere idleness and having to force you to sleep after you broke apart the moment we landed here in Moana," said the Babaylan, looking up at Awiyao. "You weeping and sobbing and yelling and cursing and pounding your fist against trees and hurling rocks into the distance in your anger. I must say I am surprised the Moanians had not found us yet after all the ruckus you caused. They could have heard you, Awiyao! And what would you have done, what would you have said, in such a state? You might have sentenced us both to death then and there, in your passionate recklessness, if they had found us here hours ago!"

Awiyao said nothing, staring down at his right hand, his fist lathered with ointment and bandaged in leaves, probably the work of the Babaylan whilst he had slept. The wounds beneath the bandage still stung—what had he done? How was he supposed to fight with the nagging pain on his flesh? Yet the boy remained quiet, acting as though he felt nothing, averting any eye contact with the Babaylan.

Despite this pretense, Awiyao knew, admitted to himself, that he had done wrong, acted recklessly in his grief and anger.

"You must eat," said the Babaylan, looking up at him. He reached down to the pile of nuts and berries on a large leaf, grabbed a few, held them out to Awiyao. "I know this would not suffice, yet I believe a little food will give us more help than none. We cannot negotiate well with the Moanian people if our minds remain cluttered and hazy, if our stomachs remain wholly empty. Anything unprecedented and unpleasant may happen, and we must be ready as we possibly could, physically and mentally. Eat, Awiyao."

Awiyao then looked down at the Babaylan, kneeling on the forest floor. There was no point in wasting more time. He sat next to the Babaylan, reached out to take the nuts and berries from his hand, muttered his thanks, and proceeded to put a couple berries into his mouth. His teeth tore into their thin soft flesh, a sweet tang spilling onto his tongue. And somehow he felt a little better.

"After we have our meal," said the Babaylan, scooping up a bunch of nuts with one hand, "we shall proceed to look for your friend."

A large robust man sat upon a throne of hardwood, carved with symbols and images of their own culture, of stars and waves and beasts, embellished with a few small glistening white stones.

    Tan skin, ebony hair peppered with bristles of silver, dressed in a loin cloth of several plaited threads hung from a thick waistband, patterns and symbols of blue, black, and white woven into the fabric, the man drummed his fingers against the wooden surface of his armrest, the rhythm echoing round the vast space of the meeting house—the whare whakairo, as the Moanians called it, where images of their ancestors, of their religious beliefs, of elements and creatures of nature—these figures seemingly abstract to the eye of any stranger besides themselves, a secret language amongst the people of Moana—had been carved into the walls, listening in on this strained silence, this lack of words, listening to the tap of the man's fingers against wood, waiting . . .

    The man's youngest son stood before him, stood before the throne, and the man known to his people as Rangatira Kamaka, chief of the Moana Tribe, glared straight at his son—a boy of sixteen years, Moanian symbols etched into his chin and chest and arms in dark blue ink, just like his father, just like every other Moanian man in the village who had finished his years of training.

    "Well, think about this, Papa," said the chief's son, after a long stretch of tense silence. "We have some of the best blacksmiths on the Island. Don't you think they can make one like it, perhaps one even better than the one I had lost?"

    "Toa." Rangatira Kamaka pinched his nose, shut his eyes. Toa knew that expression all too well—his father reining in his anger—and this he was no stranger to. It no longer surprised him, no longer bothered him as much as it should. And his father went on and said, "You know very well the value of the weapon you have lost. It was your great grandfather's, the very battle axe he used in the Moanian-Kadasan War. How could you be so careless, Toa? And all for the sake of impressing your friends!"

"It was an accident, Papa," Toa said. "I promise to look for it, I assure you that. In fact, I intend to begin the search this noon, and if it still remains missing when the sun sets and the night closes in—"

"Toa, do you fully intend to search over the edge of the cliff, swim into depths of the sea at high tide to look for it? And even if you were aided by the Essence, the waters would have carried it at such a great distance away from the cliff for you to summon it up out of the sea. It would be all for naught, I tell you—you standing there in the heat of midday till the dead of night, senselessly pulling up rocks and fish and corals and debris and other objects, long forgotten and turned useless by brine, out of the waters! There is no retrieving the fallen weapon! It is lost for good, Toa! Lost for ever!"

Toa opened his mouth, only to close it again; no other credible means to appease his father now came to mind.

"Papa, I . . ." Toa started, more out of habit than actual thought.

And Rangatira Kamaka knew his son well enough to expect no further decent word from him. The chief raised one large hand, opened his mouth to stop the rambling that was to pour forth from his son's lips—

"Rangatira!"

All eyes—Toa's, his father's, and those of the two armed men with them in the large room—turned to the voice, to a man standing at the door of the whare whakairo.

Toa recognized him immediately.

"Kaihautu," said Rangatira Kamaka, as his eldest son strode forward—a tall, taut man in his early twenties; the same shade of tan skin, the same sable hair trimmed short as the chief's and Toa's, similar symbols in dark blue ink adorning his face and chest and arms. "What seems to be the matter, my son?"

    "Trespassers, Papa," said Kaihautu, when he came and stood before his father. He halted right next to Toa, the expression on the youngest son's face a mingle of curiosity and relief, his eyes fixed on his eldest blood brother. "Spies, I believe, from the Kadasan people. Earlier this morning, Huatare and I along with some others had gone out to hunt in the woods, and there we found the Kadasans, two of them, hiding amid the trees. They had with them a large winged beast, which we managed to bind still with some difficulty . . ."

Not far from where they stood, somewhere past the door of the whare whakairo, a cacophony of voices began to insinuate into the hall. Toa turned and listened; a crowd was building up outside, the noise growing louder with each passing second, with each new wave of voices.

Then a screech pierced the air, startling Toa, his heart giving a sudden jolt in his chest. The screeching from beyond the door lasted a few moments, that coupled with men's voices reverberating into the room, his brother's words cut off by the disturbance. Toa kept his eyes on the open doorway, on the multitude of bodies a distance away moving, surrounding something—a beast, he imagined, large and winged and perhaps bird-like, its huge beak opening to release its sharp cries into the air.

Then with a yell, a man's yell, the screeching stopped, and all was silent, until Kaihautu went on to say, "That is the beast, Papa. Huatare is outside with the other men, keeping it restrained."

    Of course Huatare was there handling the beast, thought Toa. He was the most skilled among them—between he, Kaihautu, Toa, and even their father—in the art of taming and training animals. Not to say he wasn't skilled in the art of weaponry and combat—in which Toa was the best at among the three blood brothers—nor was he bad at hunting—Kaihautu's expertise. Each of them simply had their own gifts, their own talents, something that distinguished one from the other.

"The Kadasans claim they have come to warn us of an approaching enemy," continued Kaihautu, "that their village was attacked and that this adversary—an army of them, they say—intends to ambush us soon."

At these words, Toa turned back to his blood brother. "And what makes you think they're spies, Kaihautu?" Toa asked, before he could stop himself. "If you think of it, there's still a possibility—however slim—that their warning might actually be true."

    Kaihautu laughed. "Precisely, Toa, slim. For years we have been living in peace. How is it possible that a war would suddenly break out if the nations have promised each other the cease of all wars, the cease of all trespass and any attempts to invade the land of another? It all seems absolutely ridiculous to me. Don't you agree, Papa?"

    At this, without a word, their father stood from his throne. He was not laughing; he seemed to find none of this comical, did not even seem to find Kaihautu's statements the slightest bit amusing; his face was set in a grave expression as he crossed the hall of the whare whakairo, his two sons and the two armed men with them trailing the chief to the door.

    Rangatira Kamaka halted before the doorway, and turned to his sons, as well as the men who stood behind them, the noise outside louder now, the chaos of voices and sounds incomprehensible pouring into their space. "There is only one way to discern if these Kadasans speak the truth," said the Moanian chief. "I must see them myself, hear of this warning myself, together with the rest of the elders. I believe Elohim shall guide us. Yet I do hope that what these Kadasans have said is nothing but mere deception; for I must admit, it scares me to think that we must live through a war and its violence and its cruelty as our ancestors did."

    Toa had to agree; despite their differences—and his being reprimanded minutes before—his father was right. The thought of war did scare him, as much as it seemed to scare Rangatira Kamaka, as much as it frightened Kaihautu, who was clearly suppressing his fear into this sort of disbelief, this denial he had spoken aloud not only to assure his father and blood brother, but most of all himself.

"The rest of the elders were already there by the time I left to inform you," Kaihautu said, after a moment's silence. "I believe they are still there, perhaps discussing among themselves, finding a way about this the best they could."

"Good," said Rangatira Kamaka. He then turned to the door, as though woken from his thoughts, and stepped out onto the grass, into the bright sunlight, his sons and the armed men following him out, where their eyes met the sight of people standing around something, or someone, questions and observations mingling in the air to produce a collective murmur no one could properly understand.

". . . never knew there was such a beast . . ."

". . . an inkling on why these men have come here . . ."

"Enemies, I tell you . . ."

". . . here to spy the land . . ."

". . . utter foolishness on their part . . ."

    At that, Toa suppressed a laugh. Whoever these Kadasans were, he had to agree they were fools. Fools for venturing into Moanian land without prior notice, fools for crossing boundaries without a seemingly justifiable reason, or a decently persuasive one at least. Perhaps Kaihautu did have a point: what if these men had come here to deliberately trespass, to spy upon their people and their land, and had used the warning of an impending war as an alibi to escape punishment, to go about their plans without hindrance?

The two armed men moved in front of them, placed themselves ahead of Rangatira Kamaka, announced that the chief and his two sons had arrived and now shall pass through; the crowd parted for them at once, a path clear and wide enough for five of them to walk along.

And even as Toa sauntered down the path, trailing behind his father, walking alongside his blood brother, a part of him was still suppressing a laugh, his thoughts wandering to the further idiocies these Kadasan men might had committed. Perhaps they had rejoiced over their intrusion, raising their voices in the woods out of glee until Kaihautu and Huatare and their companions had heard them and rushed over to where they were. Perhaps they had started a fire whilst celebrating, roasting meat and devouring food with utter joy as smoke rose into the air, alerting those who were in the forest with them.

Yet he was grateful: these Kadasans in their foolishness had inadvertently delayed the punishment his father had in store for him, disrupted the sermon he had by that time wanted to slip out of and pretend never happened.

Well, good for him; deeply unfortunate for them.

Toa began to smile a little as they came closer to the end of the path, emerging into a small clearing surrounded by people, the rest of the elders standing next to where he, Kaihautu, and his father now stood. And as Toa's eyes fell upon the two Kadasan men and the beast—a giant bird with great wings and a strange crown of feathers atop its head, bound to the ground by long thick ropes held by half a dozen men, its beak kept shut by round upon round of rope, Huatare's doing, he thought to himself—the smile faded from his face; the laughter died within him that moment, replaced by confusion and deep concern.

He recognized one of the Kadasan men—not so much of a man yet, rather a boy like himself. Knew that stocky frame wrapped in brown skin, that gruff impression of a face, those thick eyebrows, the strong set of jaw, the dark hair that flowed straight down the boy's back. What changed about him, Toa noticed, were the patterns etched into his chest and his upper arms; he had completed his training as well, Toa thought for a second of a heartbeat, but that wasn't important now. Awiyao was in trouble, and Toa knew he had to do something before it was too late.