An island adventure alongside the margins of society, where modernity, mythology and math meet
Toloko, inhabitant of a secluded village on a distant tropical island originally was a proud lazy person, using his mind mostly just to find ways to avoid work. But when a "black wave" attacks his home, he tasks himself with saving his grandmother to cope with his guilt, only to end up in the midst of otherworldly beasts, dubious NGOs, and pet abducting gangs terrorizing the island with strange dance moves and even stranger rhymes.
– Written by Jute (@juteanworld on Tumblr, jutean on Discord – feel free to reach out to me there or write an e-mail to jute [at] posteo.de)
Map of the island – Map of the village of Saavahai, Toloka’s home
Black waves in the sky? That… was certainly new, Toloka thought, as he saw it appear above him while he walking towards the beach, passing by thick rows of coconut palms. Look, he would tell anyone listening now, but there was no one, so he was just talking to the wind picking up more and more – I might not have paid much attention in school during weather class (or any class, for that matter…), but even I know waves in the sky are supposed to be either white and slow-moving, or come in dark swarms. And always fluffy, like wool. This one is neither! It’s pitch-black, and has… – he squinted to take a closer look, although the gusts were already becoming so strong, he was struggling to maintain his footing – it has sharp edges and moves faster than even the fiercest ocean waves during a storm...
But storms are always caused by those dark sky swarms, and rarely come out of nowhere. No way could a single wave cause something like he was now experiencing. He felt strong shivers go down his spine, but he kept his countenance as confusion at the seemingly impossible sight and the growing annoyance at the realization that his noon fishing will be spoiled. Why should he be concerned? Everyone knew tragedy only hit the hard-working, noble people. Dawdlers like him had nothing to worry about, living long, lazy lives. Had he chosen this life on purpose? Of course not, that would have required him to actually make some kind of decision on his own, and take responsibility for it. He preferred to go with the flow, regardless of what all the other villagers thought of him. Sure, it didn’t make him exactly popular, but eh. That just always seemed like a lot of needless work and trouble.
His musings were interrupted by fishing rod getting stuck at a palm whose long feather leaves were shaken vigorously by the storm, and before he even realized it, some had inexplicably fallen on him, smothering him below like he had just been tucked in by the wind itself for the night. And he would have definitely taken a midday nap right then and there, because why waste a good opportunity? Except this one was a bit different. He was unexpectedly feeling hot, too hot at places, like a flame had just kissed him good night. But that was nonsensical. He was lazy, not stupid. In fact, he believed that laziness took a lot of intelligence to make work – plenty of people do so much work that later turns out to have been unnecessary. Avoiding that required foresight, and some logical thought. Which now was telling him there was nothing that could have started a fire here, no lightning, firestone or stumbling while holding a burninng torch. (That last thing happened only once. Well, twice in a row then, but still.) And regardless, there was no way a fire spirit could even survive in this kind of weather, everyone knew fire was weak to wind.
And yet, sometimes the world rudely refuses to make sense. Actually, that was a daily occurrence, but this one was particularly galling. No matter how much he hoped the burning sensation would go away, how much he believed it was just in his mind, it didn’t. So he was finally, after who knows how much time, required to open his eyes again and actually check what was happening. He disliked that tremendously, because he felt that being at peace and not letting things be were fundamentally at odds. Good things happen to people who don’t check. Much to his chagrin, he realized he really was actually on fire. A bit. The palm leaf was smouldering and a bit of charcoaled no-longer-green had dropped on his arm and was slowly burning through his red t-shirt. He had gotten it from who knows where, no one knew how clothing at this end of the world ended up here anymore, but the thought of having to fix or replace it nagged at him more than any pain. The effort!
Some rolling on the ground and carefully measured fanning with the leaf later it was all extinguished, and his mind began to wander what in the world had made him be so incorrect in his reasoning. He got up and looked at the sky some more. The black wave wasn’t where it used to be, the sky seemed spotlessly blue again. He tried to get his miraculously unharmed fishing rod unstuck when he smelled more fire. But this time, with no hot embrace by a burning spirit. He turned around and saw columns of dark smoke rising behind the palm trees he had just passed. Those were clearly thicker and larger than a normal stovetop fire coming up through one of those newfangled chimneys.
Hey, he thought, that’s where I came from! I mean, that’s my home– ugh. He facepalmed, trying to keep his subconscious from erupting like a spring. He pictured a rock being thrown into his stream of consciousness, making water splash everywhere for a moment before settling down and flowing around it. Just like he now had to well, adapt to the new situation. So much for fishing or a nap, then. He didn’t feel concerned, or at least tried to tell himself he wasn’t. But not knowing what was happening would probably cause trouble later and disrupt his evening plans of more fishing and napping too, so he better got on with it.
He slowly walked back, still on the lookout for that dark sight in the sky, but it seemed to have disappeared as quickly as it had come. Like it was some kind of celestial prank! He wasn’t as self-centered as to think it was made specifically to ruin his fishing trip and napping, though. But then, what was it? What had actually happened?
He was now staring off into space again, lost in thought, and so tripped over a stone at the ground, and fell, almost making a pole vault with his fishing rod. After the dust had settled, he looked around for the offending stone, but could find nothinng but an oddly tear-shaped, shiny black thing that was also oddly flat for a stone on top of everything else. Wait, was this a giant scale? Who would have lost it here, that far from both the sea and the jungle? It’s impossible to overlook, so seemed unlikely for any fisher to have lost it, too.
Well, he thought, no one’s probably gonna miss it and in fact removing this tripping hazard should count as a good deed, and he was raised to do a good deed every day, so he pocketed it. But now he really hoped that there was not more fire where that smoke he saw was, after so much effort and exertion. He could only hope to be able to return to his lazy days tomorrow.
Grumbling he walked down the main path of the village, palms on the right, buildings on the left, mostly in disorderly rows alongside sidepaths. Both of them were showing inexpicable fire damage, with some palms smoldering, and people busy putting out smaller fires in straw and palm-leave roofs. They were fortunately all under control, even if getting water to them could be slow, as vehicles didn’t really exist here, not even pack animals. Everyone normally had to go about their day on foot, maybe dragging a cart behind themselves that occasionally might have some children in it, an infirm person, or some construction material. He also saw a wheelchair user once. Moving those on a dirt path required serious determination and strength in your arms, he thought. The undeterrable determination of people was admirable. Everyone in their own way, of course. As for him, he was mostly just determined to never work a day in his life, but also never have someone work for him. Why have someone else waste effort he is saving? He would rather teach those around him in his ways, if only they listened.
After some five minutes of walking, his head fixated on the clouds in the sky, he had reached the end of the path, nearing what people here called the netu, or the border to the wilderness, the jungle that surrounds the village on three sides. His home was right next to it, and he would always hear distant cries of wild beasts when being there in the evening. It was what he went to sleep to and what he woke up to, and had become a comforting sound to experience every day. What wasn’t as comforting were the all-too-common arguments with his mother, and the frequently upset ramblings of his grandmother. He did appreciate them both, and was sure they felt the same about him, just the way they showed it was, well, still surprising every time.
Fortunately, his home turned out to be unscathed.
He hadn’t even entered the footbath next to the front door yet to wash his bare feet before entering when he could already hear steps approaching all too quickly and noisily, always the sign of foreboding and trouble. The door was thrown open and words were poured on him from the waterfall of language that his mother’s mouth could turn into sometimes. He let them pass over him like a cold shower, waited patiently with his head cast down, and finally entered when he was allowed to pass.
It seemed like it would be a normal evening, until he noticed that his grandmother wasn’t in her usual place at the window drinking her coconut tea. His eyes started at the empty chair, and as he got closer to the table he saw that the jute pillow on top of it was undisturbed. He struggled to come up with any good explanations, or explanations at all beyond a huge lonely beast, maybe one of those giant owls, abducted her and his mother is blaming him for it.
Even worse, he had no idea what to do next, or what would happen next. He braced himself for another cascade of words but the silence stayed even as his mother approached him, and as he turned towards her again and finally saw the look on her face he realized he didn’t need to hear anything. He stormed out of the building and towards the healer’s building, located at the main path just across the corner.
As he ran past his neighbors’ homes he noticed a red cardinal sitting on top of one of the tiny landing spots usually reserved for carrier pigeons that were so fundamental to long-term communication on the island. He abruptly came to a stop, and would have begun a staring contest, when he noticed another column of smoke emanating from a house in the background, remembered where he was going to, and silently bid the bird goodbye.
He cut the corner and entered the yard of the healer’s house. Like all houses in the village it had no fence around it, let alone a gate.
What he saw stopped him in his tracks. What he didn't did so even more, as he tripped over a root in the small path leading him to fall down on his face instead of to the porch of the house that really didn't look any different than his own home. The only difference were blue and green feathers hanging from the porch roof. They weren't decorations; they were the confederal symbol for medical workers. Although he always felt they did make for nice ornaments and as he got up and saw the healer come out of the building, wished once again he could wear a necklace made of such feather the way she did as part of her profession.
His attention could not stray for long this time, as the healer beckoned him to come inside. He moved past a small chemistry lab situated on a table on the porch with one beaker still emitting smoke, and when he looked back into the face of its owner saw it was in fact covered in soot, something he had somehow failed to notice until now. It was odd to see someone otherwise so preoccupied with cleanliness receive anyone in this state. His heart sank further as his mind went through the possible explanations, each grimmer than the last. As he stepped inside, the cooing of several cages with carrier pigeons greeted him, and a desk with a book propped open and a letter finished and ready for sending was in front of him.
He approached it slowly, one small step at a time, not feeling ready but also not wanting to put off the inevitable.
He realized how he had never even thought of what to do if someone needed help, dismissed the possibility even, something that now left him feeling quite helpless, the regret burning his heart. He had to force himself to not look away again, to listen to the labored breathing coming faintly from below the banana leaf covers, to see the left arm hanging limply by the side like a broken twig and, after he had taken the three steps to the bed, to feel the other arm that had so tirelessly fought with any and all weeds intruding in their garden now so weakly grasp his own hand that he dared not move it. His vision became blurred with his eyes flooding, motionlessly and wordlessly he stood. And the world around the bed seemed to disappear and there was only one thought left in him now, to find a way to vanquish the dread of not knowing what to do now, to not know how to make up for not having been there when it was needed.
He could still not look his grandmother in her eyes, so he turned towards the desk again, in front of which the healer was now standing again, unmoving, like a rock at the beach. The woman shot him a stern gaze before casting her eyes down to the book and sighing, seemingly absent-mindedly playing with a small empty pot made of clay in her hand at the same time. Toloka carefully let go of his grandmother's hand, putting it back on the green blanket, and walked back to take a closer look at the pot. The thing had some writing carved in on it, which had reawakened his curiosity, and he welcomed this briefest of respites from his current life.
He regretted it as soon as he was close enough. The writing said "whiteberries" on it, and it dawned on him that the healer hadn't just picked it randomly as a kind of fidgeting tool. A look back at the herbalism tome confirmed his worst suspicions, with all his grandmother's symptoms, most strikingly the whole one body half being limp part, being described there as curable with them. A thought spurred him into action and he frantically, even somewhat carelessly to the visible displeasure of the healer, leafed through the large book trying to find an alternative. But every time he thought he had found something and expectantly looked back to the woman still standing behind him his face fell as she wordlessly shook her head each time.
He could still not look his grandmother in her eyes, so he turned towards the desk again, in front of which the healer was now standing again, unmoving, like a rock at the beach. The woman shot him a stern gaze before casting her eyes down to the book and sighing, seemingly absent-mindedly playing with a small empty pot made of clay in her hand at the same time. Toloka carefully let go of his grandmother's hand, putting it back on the green blanket, and walked back to take a closer look at the pot. The thing had some writing carved in on it, which had reawakened his curiosity, and he welcomed this briefest of respites from his current life.
He regretted it as soon as he was close enough. The writing said "whiteberries" on it, and it dawned on him that the healer hadn't just picked it randomly as a kind of fidgeting tool. A look back at the herbalism tome confirmed his worst suspicions, with all his grandmother's symptoms, most strikingly the whole one body half being limp part, being described there as curable with them. A thought spurred him into action and he frantically, even somewhat carelessly to the visible displeasure of the healer, leafed through the large book trying to find an alternative. But every time he thought he had found something and expectantly looked back to the woman still standing behind him his face fell as she wordlessly shook her head each time.
He trotted off, slowly, but with a firm conviction. Earning the right to not be called "useless", or as they said here, dahomol a vakelavan se, "not a dragoncatcher for sure".
What could he do? Especially in such a small, remote village. He had enjoyed the solitude, the feeling of being so far away from everything that could potentially spell trouble, but this day had shattered it all and he now wished he could pull the land below his feet closer to the main parts of the island, like a young adult that wishes to return to their mother. In the absence of literally earthshattering spiritual powers, moving his feet instead would have to suffice.
There he would have to find those elusive small berries. Well, "there" was remarkably unspecific, unfortunately. He did not enjoy the thought of what he would have to do next.
This morning I certainly didn't see myself doing schoolwork by the afternoon...
He started moving to the local library, dragging himself, really, as part of him was apparently strongly resisting it. Not on the inside, it seemed to him more like his spirit had split into twins, one pushing him to go on, the other holding him by his knees, pulling him back into the pit of despair. This lethargic side preferred to stick with what is familiar even if it had failed him now and staying would only deepen the wounds inside.
A strangely familiar call made him stop and turn his head around. But he didn't see anyone standing anywhere. Yet the call returned once more, clear and loud enough it had to be nearby. He looked left and right, until he realized it was somehow coming from near the ground. There it was again, the same red cardinal as before. It's like he had been followed the entire way and now had someone wait for him. The bird took to flight and he followed it with his eyes, not speaking a word this time. It eventually perched down on his shoulder. He was surprised, but decided to leave it be. A bit of moral support right now might be nice, in fact.
Soon he and his new friend found themselves back on the long path that was moving past the village on one side and past the coconut palms and banana trees protecting it from the ocean on the other side. Waves higher than any house here could land at the shore that was so exposed to the open sea, and the village was often cut off from the wider world entirely as a result, jammed between the green jungle behind it and the blue, wet jungle ahead of it.
That's not to say the land stayed dry in comparison. Rain was an almost daily spectacle the tropical climate entitled everyone living here to experience. Every day, all year long, ranging from light, refreshing showers in the dry season to torrential downpours that could make him feel that all the world's rain was coming down at once during the wet season. And one was starting just now, with the dry season just having ended.
His reluctant spirit twin let go of him and he began to run.
Thankfully the library was just the time you needed to eat a banana away. Most things were nearby, the beach here he had meant to fish on earlier was just one banana more away, or two for fast eaters. Trying to measure the distance to the nearest town the same way would however give anyone potassium poisoning, rot their teeth and turn their blood sweet. In short, it should be avoided. (Also, any boat would struggle to carry the necessary amount across the sea.)
Toloka threw the eaten banana away, letting it fall on top of a nearby vegetable patch. Banana peels made for good mulch, containing a lot of nutrients that would be slowly released as the peel decomposed. He was now standing on the village plaza in front of the largest building of the village, containing an assembly room for weekly meetings of the community on the ground floor, an archive with records on the second, and finally the library on the third one. Unfortunately, the bakery right next to it was closed from the storm, so he would not be able to score any banana pancakes today as provision. But its store of raw ingredients had been swirled all over the place, and so he picked up another banana and began eating it.
He stepped towards the large and bulky community center doors and tried to open them, but they wouldn't budge. Of course, the storm and the destruction it caused would obviously led to the librarian in charge of the whole thing closing it. Looking up, he could see that while the house itself had survived it all mostly intact, save for some scorch marks here and there, all the windows had been broken and rain was getting into the rooms with the bookshelves.
Oh no.
Seeing the threat the collective memory of the village was under, he doubled down on trying to open the doors, rattling on them, holding his feet against them to add grip, but to no avail. But all he got for his troubles was a bucket of rainwater on his already wet head. His red-feathered friend let out a loud indignant chip and took off briefly to shake the drops of water from itself.
That was reason enough for him to give up. The librarian clearly didn't want to be disturbed and didn't want any help dealing with the mess the phenomeon earlier had caused , and he wasn't going to shout at him to argue. Waste of energy, for one. And he also had had harmony drilled into him since a young age, or mohomo. Mohomo with other people, pets, plants and so on. Did it mean care? Usually. Did it mean give and take equally freely? Absolutely. Could it also mean "stay away if you don't want to live in harmony with worms, ants and fungi"? Yes.
In this case it, too, meant "stay away", although he didn't remember the librarian ever being that dangerous.
But what alternative was there? He couldn't risk asking the healer, probably busy like never before now, risk seeing that grim face again. And with no chance to consult books on his own here, what was there left to do?
He really did not enjoy the thought of what he would have to do next.
Still getting soaked from the rain, he sat down. He would have to stay out the entire night. There was simply no other way. His mother knew not to expect him for dinner, knew that he preferred to make his food himself.
And she had eventually had to accept his erratic sleep schedule, too. Going to bed late at night, in the early morning or not at all for a day or two, not even he knew what that schedule looked like on any given day, and any attempts by her to gently suggest to maybe not wake up when everyone else was halfway through their day already, or to not just nap whenever he pleased had been no more successful than a gentle wave is at sculpting a rock.
He sometimes turned a night into a day, and the day into a night, and that was alright with him. But he didn't like to be forced to do so.
At least not showing up at home would also save him from another torrent of accusations and complaints from his mother today.
They should invent an umbrella that shields you from that kind of rain, he thought. Maybe she would learn to save her breath then. Maybe he could teach her to remain calm some time – he realized his thoughts were trailing off. This wasn't about her, but *her* mother. Of course she would be upset. And ... he himself was currently trying to avoid thinking how it all had made him feel, he realized, wincing involuntarily.
Was he distracting himself from his feelings – maybe, but he was convinced that helping in any way he could could be argued to be more important. He was not simply running away from everything. He was going to run away *on a mission*. As soon as it was time to sleep (for everyone else), he could start. Not before, he would be, well, unlikely to get any approval for his plan.
In the meantime, he might be able to get his fishing rod back that he had left hanging in the palm that had given him a hug that had been a little too hot. At least that was unlikely to happen again.
And then he would have to wait. That wasn't even the part he dreaded. He was good at waiting, wasting time, he thought. Like no one else even, as he figured no one else had experience in it like him. But it was what awaited him that spoiled what was otherwise one of his favorite way to waste, erm, spend time.
Still sitting in the rain in front of the door that had refused to grant him entry, he looked around slowly, hanging his head.
The downpour seemed to wash out all the colors of the world. Otherwise bright and lush, the green of the trees had faded into a greyish hue which was bleeding into the similarly grey sky, and the brown of the wooden homes into brown of the paths next to them, which were now resembling mudbeds and would remain so until the morning at least. If he wanted avoid being seen and stopped later, asked what in the world he was doing, he would have to be careful, because running was difficult on such ground.
He sighed. Just an hour ago everything seemed so different… Now clouds had gathered inside him, mirroring the world around him. Increasingly torrential rain was pouring down on his stream of consciousness, and the small dugout carrying his mind was tossed around by the strong winds picking up and the dangerously large waves they were creating, and vortexes of doom and despair had opened up further ahead that threatened to swallow the boat whole.
But he was an experienced captain of his mind. He could still remember what he had learned fromgood the fishermen of the village, couldn’t he?
Learn to steer clear of rough waters before it is too late to turn back, and you never have to fear them.
He imagined the dugout of his mind taking a sharp turn to the left, down a small, safe creek, avoiding the first rapids of the main stream, and felt the water around him slow down, allowing him to calm down.
A loud chirping broke through the sound of the still falling rain. It came from his left, where his friend, the cardinal had found shelter in the broken storeroom of the bakery, nestled among the bananas. Toloka looked at it. It was the only source of color in his world right now. He wished he had some seed or whatever it was cardinals ate, because he did not think they ate bananas. Then he could show his gratitude to this persistent creature for being the only one to provide him with company. And the only one to not judge him.
He got up, began wading through the mud, wondering if the bird would follow again. A look over his shoulder after a few steps confirmed that it in fact had done so.
It made him walk a bit more upright and pushed the corners of his mouth slightly upwards, but he still took his time to wander through the finally fading rain. He didn’t pay attention to any people in the village, eyes fixated on the soggy ground in front of him again, but the sound of repairs from nearby homes and the collective shouts coordinating everyone’s movements were impossible to ignore.
Especially today, since there were all the cries of anguish that added a wholly new nightmarish note to the otherwise awfully cheerful ambient sound he was so used to. Now all his sense of security had been shattered and he dearly missed what he otherwise found so annoying.
From the corner of his eye he saw the strong carrying the weak, disturbingly many in fact. Far more than there were older and frailer people in the village, because he knew them all – they usually were the only ones whose presence didn’t feel overbearing to him, the ones least likely to admonish him for everything. He would sometimes just sit with them as they laid in their bed or sat on their porch, trying to listen to their life stories, while he idly worked a piece of wood with his small chert knife, stacked tiny rocks or leafed through a library book. In fact, it was one of the elders of the village that had taught him, with the endless patience of a benevolent spirit, to read.
Sometimes he would bring them a cup of water or fan them some air and get a weak smile in return, and then smile back. Other times they might listen to some of the foreign sounds a weird machine the village’s community leader had brought from one of his distant travels to the town across the sea and beyond.
Its most striking feature was a huge funnel-like shape, like one of those huge seashells you could blow air through to announce danger just the beginning of te weekly assembly of all villagers, made from a weird cold material, a metal, he was once told. It was connected to a wooden box with a handle that could make a large black disc spin that had been placed on top of it. He had always found listening to it a slightly eerie experience, as the device seemed so adept at imitating human voices, more than even the myna birds, to the point where it could appear to be singing a song with intelligible words. But it provided some comfort to dying family friends (granted, virtually everyone in the village was one), so he was limiting himself to blankly stare at the machine while holding the friend’s hand.
It was always just one person at a time, though. Today, there seemed to be so many people looking equally about to depart the concrete, tangible world for the immaterial, original one, to enter communion with the light, warmth, the spirits today… what if their number kept growing?
He knew none of those carrying the infirm would pay him any mind, much less expect him to join them. Today he almost wished they did, or at least give him another way to get his mind off things and stop his conscience from descending on the dugout of his mind like an angry, unusually moralistic swarm of bees.
But was he right to ignore it? To even want to ignore it? No, the bees were right. They should run for the position of community leader… To make them stop needling him he had to stick to his mission and not waver so easily. He had to admit to himself that he couldn’t be the lazy dog of the village forever, and had to show he could be of use, in fact would be needed to do things no one else was able to.
For a moment, his resolve faltered. Where did all that mission nonsense come from? Who was he trying to convince?
In the past, whenever he had tried to get involved with his community, tried to talk with other people, it had just led to misunderstandings, if not outright accusations. The amount of times his motives were questioned, he assumed to just want his own benefit, and then so often told he should not just care about himself… He would try to defend himself, but that just ended up giving him a reputation for starting arguments, and that made it soon impossible to try to offer help or even ask about what’s going on.
Eventually he just gave up and basically took a vow of silence. He sometimes wondered why it all had happened the way it did. But in the end he ended up leaning into the outcast role, since it was how he was treated anyway, and it at least gave him some kind of peace.
So why did it feel wrong to continue like that now? Who did he even need to care about? Almost as soon as he had formed that thought it felt like lightning struck the small dugout in his mind, leaving him reeling.
It was his grandmother, wasn't it? No matter what other people believed about him, he had to at least try to help her and not leave it all to his mother and the healer, who already had so much to do. Even if he, much to his regret, didn’t get along well with them nowadays, he still remembered how all three would often sing him lullabies.
When he got ill once, and had to be left alone at the healer’s house while she was visiting other people and his mother working in the garden, his grandmother once made a soft toy dog from various clothing scraps and some coconut fiber as a filler so he wouldn’t be.so alone.
His mother had also comforted him on the days he had come back home crying from school. Which, admittedly, was every day. Then she would make some fresh blended juice, like coconut and banana, and show him around the garden and tell him about a flower that was in bloom.
And he couldn’t forget all those other elderly housebound people who had been so nice to him. Sometimes they didn’t even have anyone who could look after them aside from the healer or someone helping her out making the rounds once or twice a day, leaving them rather alone and isolated in a community that was otherwise so close-knit. Who else could be helping them now?
He could of course stay in the village and try to watch over them. But their current state, and his grandmother’s seemed too serious, and there were just too many, too, to attend to all of them. So finding the berries would have to be his mission.
And since the librarian wouldn't let him do it the "proper" way, he would have to do it his own way. Whatever that would end up being.
By the time he had finished these thoughts – he was a rather slow thinker, who didn’t like to rush or needlessly exert himself after all – he was close to where he had left his fishing rod hanging earlier.
He was glad it wasn’t an animal he had to worry about having abandoned before, taking care of such a tool and making sure not to forget it everywhere was enough responsibility for him already.
It was his most prized possession and also his only one, beyond the singed clothes on him, a wooden flute and the small chert knife he carried with himself everywhere. Sometimes he felt greedy with how much he enjoyed this gift from the same fishers who had taught him to navigate choppy waters in his mind, because he had taken it very readily and kept it always all to himself – perhaps there was someone in the village who needed it more, some family that would benefit from it, maybe the fishers had expected him to catch fish for his kin with it, but he just really wanted to be on his own normally.
And when not, he preferred listening to the fishers telling stories of fishing, their life and families, hearing about the waves of the open sea and the dangers of the storms surrounding its outer edge where some mythical fog known as the Veil partitions it from the ocean encompassing the world, said to swallow everyone that carelessly attempts to pass through. Maybe that made up for it a bit.
And at least he did put the fishing rod to good use. It let him catch his own food and he wouldn’t constantly be relying on the help of other people, be subject to their favors or disapproving looks if he ever turned any down. It signified independence, granted him peace, and, he thought, surely should do the same to his mother who then would have less to worry about. Not that she agreed, but – he felt himself getting sidetracked.
Rather than thinking of all the blessings technology was granting him, he should use them, looking up at the palm holding his fishing device. What else were they there for?
Aside from the fishing rod, the flute traveling with him everywhere had also found him at the beach some time ago. Who knew if it was left behind by someone who was now chasing a new dream, louder, bolder, more captivating music, perhaps made with those sets of big pots filled to various heights with water. Accompanied by drums or something. The opposite of what he himself wanted, to not be weighed down in one place and be subject to piercing eyes of everyone gathered in front of you judging your abilities.
Or maybe the flute was a gift by the sea, originating from who knew where, could even be the bottom of the sea… He had no idea, really. The same went for his knife, which had made its way to him under equally mysterious circumstances.
Well, it was really a gift from an uncle, but that didn’t really narrow it down very much, since everyone in the village was either an uncle, aunt or a secret third thing, commonly called a wizard.
And now he had just been distracted again. People had teased him about that since he was little, much to his annoyance and also confusion. Why couldn’t he let his thoughts be free the way he also liked to be free?
Hm, that question probably just answered itself, he thought.
He finally tried to jump up towards the palm leaves still holding the fishing rod he had come to rescue, like a bully holding it just out of his reach. His first attempt was unsuccessful, as were the second and third and many other ones after them.
Now he began to feel taunted, it just felt like the tree was playing with him. He reached out again to shake one of the long leaves to show it just how fed up he was with its tricks, and the motion unexpectedly finally loosened the palm's grip on the rod, leading to it being thrown on his head, as if in silent protest.
He took a deep breath. His mental boat could handle another rock – or rod – thrown into the consciousness stream, he knew it. His solitude over the years had trained him in his ways, he thought with pride. But not too much pride. His ego was small enough to not be wounded by falling objects, like a mouse, and could hide and dig itself out of almost everything – although maybe he was getting lost in his metaphors here. Perhaps it was better to say that the mouse was lightweight enough that he didn’t have to worry about the dug-out sinking – no, that also didn’t seem entirely right.
Well, something to brood over while fishing, finally.
Although he didn’t let himself forget he was just biding his time before he could start his mission tonight. At least he wouldn’t be entirely alone. He had company in red, fluttering next to him.
Once the fish was caught, grilled and eaten with a side of coconut and roasted breadfruit he had gathered from nearby trees, he settled down for a nap on the beach. Usually he would get some bedding or at least a towel from home, but he did not dare go back there right now. Or for a while. So he just laid down on the ground as is, forming a headrest from the sand that he put some leaves on and let waves sing him to sleep.
Soon, they disappeared from his mind. When he could hear them again, he quickly noticed it was already dark. Thankfully, he was still alone, and for a moment just stared up at the sky, as if wishing to ask the stars for advice.
But what was there left to ask? He knew what he had to do, and how, or why. Now all there was left was to do it. Hoping the sand would take him then and there, or that the sea would accept him as one of its own was not an option.
Stretching he let out an almost inhumane sound. He felt not ready. It was more like leaving a campfire and venturing into the dark forest. But the campfire would soon be out anyway, and then it would be too late.
He gathered his three things and began tramping towards the healer’s house, to see if any lights were on. That proved to not be the case, so he was once again out at a time everyone else was asleep. It meant his plant could be set into motion. He had told no one about it, not even thought about it much himself to avoid talking himself out of it or worse, have doubts and anxiety paralyze him entirely. He would simply be doing things because that’s what he was doing.
After resting his fishing rod against a small tree growing near the healer's house to retrieve it later, he began to slowly walk back to the supply store of the bakery, he hoped it hadn’t been repaired yet.
The silence in the world around him that otherwise always had been so relaxing and peaceful now seemed much more threatening, even eerie. He wondered where the red cardinal might be at this hour, it was so dark now that even a bright red blurred into the world of grey and black around him. And he had to feel his way forward step by step on the still muddy path, making noises that he worried would give him away.
What if there was someone out after all? There were times when the villages had night guards and it would be hard to explain his activities, especially to his mother.
But he did manage to arrive, safely and lonely, at the village square after all, staying near the edge of the path, hoping to be able to disappear behind a building any moment if needed.
He felt his way to the bakery door and from there to the storeroom. To his dismay, it seemed to have been brought back into order already. But he tried to open the door anyway, gently. It was not blocked, but was weirdly heavy. He let it fall very slowly to the side and walked into the even darker room, head held low to not bump into anything.
He had been here just some hours earlier, but those repairing the place might have shifted things around. Holding his hand out like the antenna of an insect, he tried to figure out what he was touching. Pots, jugs, jars. He bent forward and recognized what he had come here for, huge jute fiber bags. Bananas were kept in them surrounded by the rough, even scratchy fabric, the first one being full to the brim, the second one slightly less so. Where were the empty ones?
He kept feeling across what must have been the lower shelf until he reached something feathery. Before his mind had a chance to understand an all too loud and familiar chirping had torn apart the silence, startling him enough he struggled to not fall over.
In the moment he was almost deadly afraid of what might happen next. Especially if he now knocked something over and alerted the baker sleeping on the other side of the wall to him. He would be brought in front of the Community Leader and as a repeat offender he didn’t want to imagine what they might have in store for him this time. He had learned from an early age on that they could be relentless. It was one reason he preferred to be alone, away from the attention of everyone. Fortunately, he could just about keep his footing and at least be happy he had been reunited with his one friend he had at this point. Had that bird really made a nest in here? That didn’t seem right but he didn’t know enough about birds to dispute it.
He felt he should also consider himself lucky the bird didn’t seem to have awakened anyone else, so he could continue searching. The cardinal had in fact rested on a large empty bag, and there was another one next to it. Perfect. He took both from him, spreading everything the bird had gathered on the floor, and once he was out of here, he could go over to the next step in his plan.
He already wished he could be anywhere else at that moment, even his bed, but there was no going back. He had to lay in the metaphorical bed he had made instead. Sometimes he wondered if his life was overfilled with metaphors and symbolism, but if he remembered correctly, someone had once told him the abstract was the way of the spirits, leading towards understanding and contentment. So probably better to not worry about it.
His own heartbeat was now distracting him as he tried to silently, like a shadow, step towards the door again, and abruptly stopped, almost throwing a jar on the floor as he grasped for something to grip. Because he had just heard voices outside. Not very loudly, but those were definitely human voices.
They could be coming closer! Or not! He had no idea, and no idea what to do either. Just turning invisible would be good, although he feared his heartbeat would give him away even then.
He waited for a few moments, holding his breath – but the voices didn't seem to be coming closer. They seemed in fact to remain where they were and not move at all. That struck him as very strange. Yes, a night guard or two doing the rounds was occasionally the case in the village, something to be expected, but why would they just stay for so long? Had they already noticed him and were only waiting for him to come out?
Oh light and darkness, spirit left and right, please not.
He could not fail so early on... before he had anything to show for.
And then the voices grew louder, but no steps could be heard. Their attention must have been directed at something else. Still pressed flat against the shelf, he turned his head to the village square outside. Nothing could be seen at all, it was as pitch dark as any night.
He couldn't stay where he was forever, sooner or later someone might still pass by, or worse, he might somehow fall asleep here, caught in the act. He had temporarily left this world to greet the dreamshapes in much weirder places before, after all.
So he had to risk it. He had to slowly crouch to the exit, with his borrowed goods.
Out in the open, he noticed the voices were coming from his right, just a few steps away. From the community center with the library. But it wasn't a parliament of owls, particularly bookish ones. It was coming from the assembly hall on the first floor. The village assembly was in session? At night? That was unexpected.
He dropped the bags by the storeroom entrance and crept closer to the voices. He had to know what was going on.
Kneeling in front of a window, he slowly rose his head to look through it. Everyone had their back turned towards him, which was good. They were all facing the speaker bench, which had no one sitting on it, strangely enough. Instead, a box with knobs and a panel with writing on it had been placed on top of it, which was ... honestly really funny. He felt his consciousness stream be abruptly flooded from somewhere, risking toppling his mental boat, throwing him into danger. The laughter was hard to hold back and threatened to derail his entire mission! And would prevent him from actually finding out what was going on here.
Once he had collected himself some, he tried to get another good look at the scene. It didn't look like a meditation session, and the voices sounded too obviously human to be belonging to a spirit or the like. They didn't have the vibration or ethereal quality you'd expect with them, in fact they weren't even clear, there was this weird sound of the sea and fire-crackling overlapping with them. So the box was apparently not a contraption to commune with celestial being. That was a relief, some conversations you simply aren't ready until it's your time... it meant there was no reason to worry about ill effects. But what was it, then? A machine like the human-sound machine he was already familiar with, but built differently? With fire and sea sounds added, perhaps for added relaxation. Perhaps all the people here couldn't sleep because they were also so worried about their ill family members and needed some calming distraction?
Well, in any case, he should leave before he was noticed. As he was slowly backing away from the window, he heard the sound of benches being moved and footsteps on the floor. The session had already ended!
If they caught him now here outside it would surely arise suspicion, even with no borrowed items with him. But he also wasn't fast enough to run away and it would be too noisy anyway and make him seem even more like a troublemaker. There was just one thing left to do.
His internal boat had navigated far choppier waters, he knew he could do this. He would act like he belonged, and so quietly opened the front door of the building a few steps away from him that led into the hallway next to the assembly room. He had assumed correctly it had now been unlocked. Unfortunately the library doors upstairs would still be closed and probably remain so for the next days... if many books survived the attack and rain today. Nonetheless, he would walk in and... just hang around.
He confidently waltzed in, moved down the wooden hallway and opened the curtains leading to the assembly hall. This was not a crime, just him being weird. As usual, he thought, barely suppressing a smile, even as his heart was thumping more than ever before. Who would suspect the habitual lazer could be up to something? He should have thought about this right away, it's just he he so disliked putting on a show.
His eyes fixated at the ceiling, partially for effect, partially trying to avoid looking people into their eyes, he walked past everyone who had gotten up.
If someone said anything to him, he couldn't hear it. They just moved past him to the exit. He remained standing at the same window he had previously looked in through and just the barely could make out the outlines of the relatively small group, it seemed to only be a few of the stronger people he had seen earlier already, guided by someone with a small gas lantern. As they moved slowly away from the building, he turned around and realized he now had the opportunity to take a closer look at that what they all had been doing here.
Approaching the speaker bench carefully, not wanting to accidentally make the box sing and attract unwanted attention, he didn't touch anything at first.
A bunch of numbers were printed on the front and an orange triangle pointed at one of them. Next to it laid some papers, but he had no time to take single look at them before he heard loud steps outside. For a moment he froze before realization, a huge stone crashing into the consciousness stream sending his mind-boat flying through his thoughtspace. He had forgotten to close the storeroom door of the bakery and they were all coming back to question him, if not outright suspect him!
He grabbed the papers, his curiosity unrelenting, waited below the window for the group to pass into the hallway, then jumped through the open window, ran over the still soft ground, picking up the bags and running straight into the strip of palms alongside the main path of the village separating it from the water, through it and towards the sea, not daring to turn around to see if he was being followed. He would not want to have to explain himself now. Neither could he read the papers he had swiped, so they had gone into one of the bags.
The boats of the fishers were peacefully resting beneath some canvas, half of them on shore, half of them in the water, and he imagined sailing off with them. Of course, the problem with that was that he had never touched a sail in his life, it was almost pitch dark night, and it would have taken too long to get ready. This was no serene moment to contemplate trying something new, he would not be alone for long and so he had to act fast. He climbed into a boat, under its canvas, and crawled towards the tiny door to the equally tiny carpentered cabin, making sure to close it behind himself this time. He threw one of the bags he was holding on the ground and hastily tried to fit himself into the other. To his luck, he was flexible enough to barely stick out, and then he waited.
No one came to visit him. But he did hear muffled voices arguing nearby. Then, he remembered that he had left tracks in the sand, of course... unless he had in his hurry not realized he had stepped into the water before getting on the boat, which might make it look like he disappeared into the water – if he was lucky again. He heard the canvas being lifted... and put down again. The voices gradually disappeared into the distance and he felt his chest lightening as he breathed out.
As fun as imagining himself being a stowaway was, waking up on the open sea and seeing where the waves would take him, far away from all village work, he had to remember his mission came first. He needed to find a way to help those ailing, especially now that he had seen how many there were of those. But it had to be done alone, or else... else no one would believe he had played any part in it at all! He knew how set in their ways the people could be, he was honestly not different. Normally.
Gathering the bags had been step one. Step two would be putting them to use to collect the necessary knowledge. And since the library was out, there was only one option left. He knew everyone, absolutely everyone would balk at the idea, but they might change their minds later.
He carefully got out of the bag, and slowly, very slowly, opened the door. No surprises awaited him on the other side this time, and he could only hear the soft waves outside.
When he climbed down from the boat, he made sure to land in the water, and then made a point to keep walking in it, slowly, in the direction of the house of the healer.
In his mind, the small boat on the stream was now being attacked with flaming arrows from the shore, and he struggled to put them out, to convince himself he was doing the right thing. He would not back down anymore. It wasn't just about himself, he tried telling himself. Could he really expect anyone else, to, well, act as boldly and not fall into old thinking patterns holding them back? Or even have enough time? No, he was the right, even the only person for such a „mission“. He mentally emphasized that word as he reached the end of the beach and moved towards the village again.
He could hear no one else, and saw no lanterns burning anywhere. The people following had probably finally gone to sleep.
There was no point in wishing he could do the same, contrary to his clearly stated wish earlier it seemed like his lazy days were behind him. An old saying popped into his head that one of the elderly friends he had made liked to repeat – No ni, „it's life“. Meaning, life is like that and we have to live with it.
The sounds of the night, he was realizing now, the calls of the jungle nearby, his footsteps in the water, even the still so softly sounding waves as they crashed on the shore felt slightly menacing to him, as if they were all calling him out, giving him away. He didn't want to go down that mental stream, but the thoughts remained. And he was alone with them, as even his feathered friend was absent, perhaps having stayed at his nesting place next to all the bananas.
But he had learned long ago that it was not wise to pick battles with an enemy you can't see, so he tried to get his attention away from those thoughts and towards his chosen path. Perhaps later he could try to make fun of his fears and anxieties if they persisted. The little horrors would not get to him, he thought.
Wait, that's not ignoring. That's the OPPOSITE of ignoring. Ah well...
He felt a sudden jolt of energy, but not in the anxious way he was familiar with, maybe it was spite. Was it the moon reflecting itself in the waters? Reminding him of a song his mother used to sing to him, a cute lullaby, bringing him back to a time when every day was filled with determination and encouragement –
Huh, the moon must have some special power, no surprise so many people like you. he thought.
The moon didn't answer.
Oh, you also like to be quiet, right? And are just as alone.
He grinned, and he thought he could see the moon grinning back. After that moment of companionship he stepped out of the water and crossed a narrow strip of sand to go back to the muddy village path.
As he approached the house of the healer, he tried to focus just on setting one foot in front of another, as quietly as humanely possible, and on what he was to do next. No arguments with himself, no reflection or rethinking, because getting in his thoughts could quickly prove fatal as it risked seriously jeopardizing this mission he was on, and really, also his entire life in the village.
Wait, I am already doing it again, he thought. Ugh.
He decided it would be better to think about what he would have to ... obtain with no permission this time. The thing that he could show to other people to explain what he was really after: The whiteberries. Or was it their roots? Didn't matter now, the book would say.
Back down the same small path and up the same steps on the small porch, and the door wasn't even closed... A loud cacophony of groans, very audible sighs, coughs and many other similar sounds greeted him and told him that many beds had been moved to here, meaning even just navigating to the same desk would be a challenge if he was not to wake up anyone, especially not the healer herself.
The wood would creak beyond his feet, surely. Our would it? No, it would be fine.
He used the various bedframes to guide him to free pathways. But that wasn't always enough. He hit his feet on more than one occasion, but fortunately he was not one given to loud theatrics, so he managed to not give himself away.
Soon he was just an arm's length away from the desk away and saw rays of moonlight breaking on an expensive glass jug standing on it, reflecting themselves in the water inside. Next to it appeared to be a glass. Excited, he increased his pace just a bit, no longer focusing on his surroundings, leading him to accidentally straight up miss a bed and crashing into its frame, nearly toppling over, which could have been fatal.
The person below him laying that bed – it was impossible to him to tell who it was – did began to cough in that moment, though, which still risked waking other people up. So he carefully went around the bed, picked up the jug, filled up the glass, and handed it wordlessly to the patient who drank it up and soon calmed down.
Through the moonlight he could also see, even if barely, that the book was still on the same spot on the desk, too. Tantalizing...
He felt a strange aura emanating from it... and then himself. Was this place, this moment changing him? It was like had been emptied on the inside and animated from something pouring in from outside, twisting his innards and very being, transforming his spirit irreversibly. He had thought he knew what he was doing, but within a few seconds it dawned on him him, he had no idea.
Then, it became all too clear he was hesitating, wasting seconds at the worst possible time – as if under a spell he could only move very slowly, gradually, raising his arms, leaning forward, putting one bag on the table, holding the other in hand to push the book into it, gently, very gently, it moving smoothly until he found too late, that he had leaned forward too much, lost his footing and fell towards the table, pushing the water jug to ground where a painful short time later it violently burst into pieces, shattering the peace of the night along itself.
Toloka felt as if he had just heard a beast jump in front of him, in the middle of a dark jungle.
He instinctively looked to the left where he could hear the healer's bed creak and not a moment later her exclaim – he didn't pay attention to what it was exactly. Not thinking at all for once, he just grabbed the second bag he had brought just in case, stumbled, ran over to her bed, where she was apparently sitting upright and presumably reaching for the gas lamp on her nightstand, and pulled the bag on her head and down her torso, then ran back to the table, grabbed the bag with the book and stormed outside, not even feeling anything whenever his feet hit something again and towards the end just climbing on the beds and jumping over the patients, barely slowing down when he had reached the village path, grabbed the fishing rod, or when he had put some distance between the house and him or even when he had reached the end of the village, where the border to true wilderness lay. He ran and ran until he could no longer hear the alarm bells of the village ringing and collapsed near a stream under a tree. Now he actually was in the dark jungle, alone. Well, save for the mosquitoes.
– To be continued –
