Inside the Maneaba, the shadows clung to the rafters, where miles of hand-braided coconut string bound the beams together like the tendons of a giant. The only light came from a single (Rama)—a heavy bundle of dried coconut leaflets bound so tightly they bled a thick, resinous smoke.
The torch sat in a heavy coral-stone base on the dirt floor, its tip a concentrated, pulsing orange coal. It didn't cast a wild flame; instead, it breathed a heavy, amber glow that crawled across the "pale cream" mats.
Silence was heavy as Cold Sweat.
Tantei looked at the Chief, then lowered his head. His fingers dug into the masi-wrapped bundle, the dry fabric rasping against his calloused palms as he anchored himself to the floor. His eyes narrowed, glazing over with the gray film of a memory he hadn't fully escaped. "You are right to take that into account, Chief Maluma," he began, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration.
He met Maluma's stare with a gaze that wasn't just tired, but heavy with the weight of hundreds of dead kinsmen. "But the curse didn't kill everyone at once. It was more of a Cumulative Rot. It didn't strike the people who were always on the move—the rowers, the hunters, the builders. It caught up to the ones who stayed in the village, the ones whose blood moved slowly,"
Beside him, Kanka's posture broke; he looked down at the woven mat, his expression sinking into the shadows of his own collarbones. In contrast, Konto remained unnervingly still, his face a carved mask of tragedy, staring past him.
Maluma's eyes drifted, tracing the air just past Tantei's ear—a predator checking the perimeter—before snapping back with a stillness that pinned the air in the room.
Tantei didn't blink. "By the time it reached the strong hearted, we already left Fiji to seek help. We found ourselves surrounded where the currents met and died. We didn't move. No wind. No tide. Just the sun and the salt that drained the life out of us, making it look like we simply starved. Those 3 days were three weeks for us. Voyagers also call this 'The Mirror Of The Sky'—I don't know if you're familiar with that phenomenon."
Maluma's chin dipped slowly. He stared at the mat between them, his pupils vanishing beneath the heavy ridge of his brow. Only the faint, flickering amber of the torchlight caught the hair of his eyebrows, until he shifted, and his irises emerged from the dark like a cold, haunting ghost. "No… No, I'm not familiar with it."
Then, the Chief's head lifted. His eyes became a whip, darting from one brother to the next, measuring the depth of their exhaustion. "In fact, I'm intrigued by your experience. You've been through a lot. Now that we all know your story and feel genuinely heartfelt... we could make an exception. You can stay how long you need to."
The tension in the brothers' jaws snapped. Their mouths parted in a synchronized, silent gasp of air. Konto's chest thrummed; even through his skeletal frame, the frantic, visible thumping of his heart sent small ripples through the salt-dust on his skin.
"Maybe we could even help you find your way back."
Konto leaned into the Chief's space, his body desperate for the promise. "Really?"
Maluma's nod was a solid, final weight. He shifted his weight, leaning heavily onto one knee. "Of course. We are pretty great Wayfinders ourselves. Speaking of Wayfinding, we need to find our way to a feast." His lips peeled back, his face splitting into a slow, wide grin that didn't reach his eyes. The torchlight caught the wet gleam of his teeth, a flash of white against his sun-blackened skin that looked less like a greeting and more like a predator measuring the size of its next meal. "You only just started to taste our exquisite cuisine."
Maluma shifted his weight, his crossed-legs grinding softly against the mat as he turned to the side. He raised a hand and snapped his fingers—a sharp, dry crack that sliced through the heavy air of the tent.
In response, a young man seated near the pillars detached himself from the ring of bodies. He didn't stand, he moved in a low, fluid, silent crouch, navigating the slices of space between the seated elders with a practiced, silent grace, appearing more like a shadow sliding across the mats than a man walking.
As he reached the Chief's side, the young man dropped to both knees, lowering his head until he was a full level below the Chief. He didn't speak. He tilted his head, showing two bright points of focus that showed a disciplined, silent intensity. He
pressed his ear toward Maluma's lips, and returned his eyes fixed respectfully on the floor.
Maluma didn't turn to face him. He kept his gaze fixed on the Fijian brothers, then past, his voice a low, secret vibration meant only for the messenger. The young man's brow furrowed in concentration, nodding once—a short, sharp motion—before retreating in the same, low-gliding crawl.
Maluma pivoted his head, his gaze sweeping the floor before settling on Tenia. For a fleeting second, the remnant of that softer smile lingered on his face, but as he met her stare, it withered.
Tenia sat with her arms locked across her chest, her posture a vertical defiance against the low, heavy slope of the roof. She didn't move her head, keeping it fixed and straight, but her eyes—amber honey laced with iron—remained anchored to him in a passive, unyielding side-eye. It was a gaze that didn't just watch; it interrogated.
Maluma felt the weight of it. He didn't challenge her directly. Instead, he slowly turned his head back to the center, his chin dipping as his eyes found the woven patterns of the floor.
The interior of the Maneaba vanished in a hard, clinical blink.
The sky above was "off"—a bruised, sickly wash of pale violet and sulfur-yellow where the sun had been smothered by a ceiling of slate-grey clouds and the parched, dusty scent of scorched palm fronds and sun-baked coral.
From the palm crowns, a voyeuristic lens peering through the "V" where the heavy fronds overlap, the village looked like a dark, organic machine. The fronds produced a constant, rhythmic rasping—the sound of thousands of tiny wooden teeth combing against one another. It was a dry, restless shhhhh-shuck that pulsed with every gust.
Distant from the canopy, two shapes emerged into the starburst intersection, the point where the white coral paths of the kainga (family hamlets) bled into the main thoroughfare.
Tako and Tinko looked like small, organic pulses of life. Their voices drifted up through the palms, shredded by the rasping leaves.
"...the way they ate..." a faint murmur rose, barely a breath.
"...the Mirror," the reply came, swallowed by the sound of the wind in the fronds.
It didn't stop.
Their feet produced a high-pitched, brittle skritch-crunch on the te ene (crushed white coral), a sound that echoed between the raised floors of the mwaneaba (meeting house) and the sleeping huts like broken lightbulbs or coarse salt. They didn't look at each other. They kept their eyes fixed forward.
Tako shifted the Ba-n-aine—the specialized harvesting yoke—across his shoulders. The heavy digging stick creaked under the weight of the root crops. His voice was a low rasp, mirroring the fronds above. "I don't believe the Fijians' story. The Chief could've interrogated them more. They looked startled, but every time they got more clever with their answers… You can't just be making that up. Tell me if I'm wrong."
Tinko tapped his pandanus basket, his taro-laden arm tensing. His face wanted to say something; his eyes darted to Tako, his lips pressing thin and white before he spoke up. "I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear what you just uttered."
Tako stopped momentarily, his head whipping toward Tinko. He stared at his brother's face in slight disbelief. "So you're not gonna question this? Not even their whole made-up narrative, huh?"
Tinko didn't slow his pace, his gaze locked on the distant orange glow of their hearth. "There's nothing left to question, Tako. The Chief questioned them, and they answered without debate. That seems fair judgment by itself."
Tako let out a sharp tch, moving his head to the side. His eyes flared in disapproval and his upper lip curled just enough to show his teeth in a jagged, animalistic snarl. "Oh, don't give me that crap."
Tinko stopped dead and focused fully on him, piercing him with a sharp, uncompromising look. "You act pretty stuck up," Tinko countered, his voice gaining a hard, rhythmic edge. "They are traumatized. They sat with a bunch of strangers in the bure (hut), they were clearly under a lot of pressure. They felt like they were at sea for weeks. What did you expect to happen? Kick them off the island?"
He flicked his head to the side for emphasis, the movement sharp and final.
Tako's eyes narrowed into slits, his face a mask of slight disapproval and heavy hesitation. His posture hunched forward like a predator measuring a gap in a fence. "We don't know their real origin. We don't know their plans.
"I do know they were on the brink of dying. So.. I don't see your point on them being dangerous. True, they might be strange and.. look a bit unsettling, but that doesn't oblige us to screw them over. It would be disrespectful to our ancestors and to the character we've preserved for ages. We're the Akoi (goodhearted/kind). That's who we are. We help the ones in need."
The men continued their walk, the palms slowly beginning to give way to the deeper interior. As they turned west-southwest, the "machine" sound of the palms didn't fade, but it was sliced through by something sharper. From the far-off breadfruit canopy, the wind carried the tink-tink-tink of stone against dry wood—the high-pitched metallic strikes reached them like tiny glass needles, punctuating their silence.
Beneath that, the faint, frantic cheep-cheep-cheep of starlings flitting through the distant trees sounded less like birds and more like the air itself was beginning to splinter as they moved closer.
The view glides at a steady, heavy pace from the height of the twelve-metered breadfruit crowns to the flank of the village spine. Through the massive, serrated leaves—deep-green fans that partially obscure the sight with every rhythmic sway of the wind—the brothers moved through the indigo gloom. Their organic forms appear and disappear between the thick, silver-grey trunks. The perspective remained detached, watching the Ba-n-aine bob with the uneven rhythm of Tako's stride.
The brittle skritch-crunch of the te ene has faded, replaced by the soft, heavy thud of their feet on the leaf-strewn earth. The air between them tightened. Their voices no longer grappled with the rasping wind of the palms; instead, they dropped, becoming thin and sharp, cutting through the humid stillness like a whisper meant to stay beneath the thatch.
Tako, his voice holds a curious, hushed quality, a gravelly vibration against the passing pillars. "Buldgeons. Those tools look really smooth. Haven't you seen them? Amazing."
Tinko: "I agree. I instantly wanted one of those."
the sound of Tako's feet stopped momentarily, his lips a curling into that familiar tch. "And what exactly would you want that for?"
Tinko, his voice carried a rare, playful energy. He shifted his weight, the taro in his arm shifting with a dull thud, and he executes a sudden, sharp flick of his wrist. "Maybe perform the Nakoniwae, Hya, Hya!" He mimics the secretive footwork, his shadow dancing in a jagged silhouette against the woven atigi (thatch walls) of the bure. "With my amazing advanced tool that nobody has. It would be pretty cool."
Beside the bure, a woman with a slim, wiry build stood in the drifting smoke. Her obsidian hair was pulled back into a tight, practical man-bun, exposing the stark, cold angles of her face. As the brothers' whispers cut through the stillness, she didn't shift her weight; she only turned her neck.
The sun caught the sharp ridge of her jaw—a heavy, squared structure that anchors her face in a permanent expression of detached analysis. Her eyes were hooded, piercing through the pale-blue haze.
Tako let out a dry, dismissive breath, his eyes flaring in disapproval as he moves his head to the side. He bares his teeth in a jagged snarl, mocking the display. "You wish you could do Nakoniwae, let alone use their tools. I'm just saying. Just... Think about the islands we don't know about. Fiji. No one knew about it. We only reached the tip of the coral—what other advancements are out there?"
Tinko watches his brother's posture hunch forward, that predatory hesitation returning to Tako's shoulders. Tinko reaches out, flicking his head to the side with a sharp, dismissive motion to break the trance. "Forget about that abstract thought for now, man. What would be amazing is that we're gonna have one of the biggest celebrations in recent years tonight. If you want, I can hook you up with a chick. There will be a lot of em."
Tako's eyes narrow into slits. He looks away, his face a mask of slight disapproval and lingering hesitation. "Tinko, I've already told you. I already met one in Arorae. I don't need a hookup."
They took a sharp, practiced turn toward the te roro—the elevated platform buttressed by massive slabs of weathered coral limestone. These stones, hauled from the reef's edge generations ago, were worn smooth and stained by the oils of a thousand harvests.
Tinko lets out a light, mocking chuckle—"Ah, Ah. Is that so?" He leaned in, his face etched in the gold of the dying sun. "Maybe I can help you tomorrow setting up your wedding for your 1000 km distant wife,"
As the words left his mouth, Tinko moved. With a heavy exhale, he swung the pandanus basket from his hip. It landed with a deep, resonant THUD on the limestone—a sound that wasn't hollow like wood, but dense and earth-shaking. It was the sound of "home," but today it felt like a punctuation mark on their argument.
"Look..." Tinko continued, his skeptic brow furrowing deeper as he stared directly into Tako's broad eyes. "If you want to fit in, you gotta adapt to your struggles. That's the only way you're gonna get past the hurdle of your own mindset. So, breathe out, buddy. Relax," his gaze locked with a wide, challenging grin. "You're gonna enjoy this. I'm sure tonight will be ReVeLRY."
The bruised violet sky was gone, replaced by a total, suffocating black that made the te rama torches look like screaming orange wounds in the night.
The village has shifted from a quiet collection of huts into a clattering, rhythmic machine. The light didn't just flicker; it pulses, throwing ten-meter-long shadows of the dancers against the white coral earth—shadows that stretch and snapped like the braided tendons of the Maneaba rafters.
Near the massive coral pillars of the Mwaneaba, a cropped semi-circle of elders rested. They were seated on Te Kai-n-tekateka, low-profile stools carved from heavy breadfruit timber, worn to a dark mirror-shine.
At the center sat Tenia. Her arms uncrossed now; she leanwd back, a genuine, rare laugh crinkling the corners of her amber eyes as an elder leaned in with a whispered joke.
The music here was a low-vibe heartbeat. A Te Baurua—a hollowed wooden percussion box—producing a deep, watery thud that vibrates through the earth, along with the.bright, metallic plink-pluck of a ukulele weaves a circular, melodic net. The air was filled only with the rhythmic, wood-on-wood pulse of the island.
A sudden blur of motion cut through the golden light. Chalo and Pedro, followed by a pack of children, streaked across the clearing. Their small feet kicked up a fine mist of Te Ene (crushed white coral), their laughter a high-pitched trill that danced over the low-thrumming instruments.
The village settled into a sensory machine in motion.
The fermented tang of Kaokioki sat heavy and sharp on the tongue, a sour electricity that cut through the thick, sweet scent of charred pandanus. Nearby, the earth-ovens were unearthed, releasing a cloud of steam that smelled of salt and smoke as leaf-wrapped fish are pulled from the stones.
Skin across the clearing was slick with Te Boi, the scented oil reflecting the torchlight like polished mahogany, making every muscle move like liquid.
The men tilted their polished Ipu shells back, their throats moving in a slow, swallowing rhythm that matched the music perfectly. Above it all, the constant, dry shhhh-shuck of the palm fronds acted as a natural metronome for the night, a restless sound that pulses with every breath of the sea.
Near the edge of the breadfruit canopy, where the indigo gloom meets the amber glow, Tambo stood with a young woman. His seriousness has softened into a faint, weary smile. He spoke in a conversational vibration, his voice barely a breath. "There was a lot going on," he murmured.
The woman nodded, her silence a respectful anchor to his words, her eyes reflecting the distant sparks of the hearth.
In a separate pocket of light, Tantei stood like a pillar of salt-crusted stone, surrounded by three women, their eyes wide with a mix of caution and fascination.
Tantei had his arms crossed over his chest, his posture a vertical defiance against the low, heavy slope of the nearby thatch. He looked toward the first woman on his left.
"Why is your hair so big and smooth?" she asks, her voice a lilting melody of genuine wonder.
Tantei's gaze shifted, his gravelly voice dropping into a low, proud rasp. "I bred it since I was a kid, And a lot of self-care."
The women immediately recoiled, their bodies moving in a synchronized wave of surprise. They look at each other, their mouths falling open into perfect 'O' gaps, stunned.
The laidback music continued to flow through the paths, a melodic thread holding the village together while the night continued to turn.
The light from the Te Rama torch sputtered, casting a long, wavering shadow of Maluma's profile against the coral pillar. He didn't turn to look at Rata; he remained a statue of dark skin and focused intent, watching the Fijian brothers through the haze of the fire.
Maluma's voice was almost a whisper, a low vibration that stayed beneath the bright plucking of the ukulele. "We have to keep a close eye on them, Rata. They act hospitable for now, but we don't feed the shark that circles our own outrigger."
Rata's gaze wasn't piercing, but it was sure—the steady, unwavering look of a man who had spent decades reading the surface of the deep ocean for the slightest ripple of danger. He didn't need to squint to see the threat. His eyes remained fixed on Tantei's broad back, his own toned arms remaining locked across his chest.
The golden warmth of the firelight played across Tantei's face, softening the harsh lines of his brow. He looked at the circle of women, his lips pulling back into a genuine, white-toothed smile that made the girls whisper and nudge each other with renewed excitement.
Then he saw him.
His smile didn't fade—it froze. His eyes shifted toward the space directly beside his shoulder where the zesty young man had angled his face upward, eyes fluttering in a mock-delicate imitation of the girls. The proximity was startling; the young man's skin was slick with Te Boi, and the scent of the heavy oil mingled with the sharp, fermented air.
Tantei's gaze locked onto the exaggerated pout and the tilted head, his pupils dilated, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. The comfort he had felt seconds ago evaporated, replaced by a raw, jagged awkwardness. He slid six inches to the right, his arms tightening across his chest as if to make himself a smaller target.
Low to the ground, where the white Te Ene coral dust was cool and gritty, two pairs of twelve-year-old hands dart across a Te Inai mat. The pluck of the distant ukulele provided a rhythmic backdrop to the sharp, repetitive clicking of smooth coral stones and polished coconut husks.
Palo, a boy with messy tufts of hair and eyes that seem too large for his face, leans forward over the pieces. In front of him sat a girl with a practical, bone-pinned bun and a riri skirt decorated with sharp geometric patterns.
"It's my turn," the girl snapped, her fingers hovering like a hawk.
"No, it's mine," Palo countered, sliding a stone forward.
"You went two rounds. You shouldn't be cheating."
"No, you're cheating."
"Uhh.. No. You're obviously the one that cheated," she huffs, her voice rising.
"No. I did not."
"Yes, you did."
The petty loop of their argument was suddenly cut short by a wide shadow. A large, calloused hand sweeped across the mat, snatching the game pieces in one predatory motion.
Standing over them were two older teenagers, fourteen and fifteen-looking. The leader was a lanky youth with a sharp, arrogant jawline and a jagged scar through his left eyebrow that catches the orange torchlight. His thick, frayed Te Itai skirt sways as he loomed over the children.
His companion was leaner, his ribs visible beneath skin slicked with pungent Te Boi oil, wearing a simple, dark fiber wrap.
"Give it back," Palo says, immediatly standing up, his voice small and trembling, "You can't take stuff that's not yours."
"Oh, really?" The leader sneered, tossing the stolen stones into the air with a rhythmic clack. "Are you gonna cry if I don't?"
The girl stands her ground, her jaw set in a hard line. "He said to give it back."
The leaner bully lets out a high, mocking whistle, nudging his partner. "Oh, Oh. Did you see that? He's being saved by a girl. So cute."
"I said to hand it over," the girl repeats, her hands balling into fists.
"And what will you do about it?" the leader challenged. His partner spread his hands with a mischievous, shark-like grin. "Tell you what: if you managed to take it from us, we will leave you guys alone."
"Come on. This isn't funny. We haven't done anything," she pleads, the frustration finally bubbling over.
"That's not our problem," the leader retorts, his voice flat and cold.
The girl shifts her weight, placing herself firmly between the bullies and Palo. "Don't worry, Palo. We will fix this."
The two bullies exchange a strange look of mischievous surprise, their eyebrows lifting as they realize the girl actually intends to stay.
But the weight of the mockery is too much for Palo. He turned and sprinted away toward the family huts, his shoulders shaking as he mopes. "I'm telling my dad!"
"Palo! Where you going?" the girl shrieked. She hesitated, looking back at the thieves who still hold their prize, then traced after him in a blur of frustrated movement. "You promised me that i will stand up for you! Now you embarrassed me!"
The clearing erupts with the harsh, gut-deep braying of the older boys. They double over, clutching their bellies, their laughter a jagged sound that cut through the resinous smoke of the feast. "What a sensitive weirdo!"
The Mwaneaba was a living map. Every Banaban was anchored into their Boti, their bodies packed so tight that the heat of the village rose to the thatch in a single, shimmering wave.
Anchored low and heavy behind Loma's shoulder,
her massive, silhouetted frame that loomed in the foreground. Her meaty, substantial build created a curved horizon of dark, oil-slicked skin, her robust shoulders acting as a biological curtain that swallowed the left side of the world.
Her hair, a thick obsidian top-knot, had escaped its binding in the humidity; heavy, dark tendrils hung like vines against the supple, mahogany glow of her neck.
Framed by this soft, "substantial" darkness, Bako sat in the only remaining pool of amber light.
His face was sharp angled and clinically precise. The white, cropped beard was a brilliant, disciplined wire-frame around his mouth, glowing like frosted silver against the total black of the background. His features—from the high, ridge of his brow to the surgical line of his jaw.
He held a coconut cup—a polished, dark Ipu—with a hand that held a slight, vibrating tremor.
He used the cup to carve the air, his amber-glass eyes fixed on her with unblinking, analytical intensity.
"My Great-Grandfather was a navigator. He used to map the stars," Bako said, his voice a crisp, modern baritone that felt too sophisticated, too calculated, for these thatch walls. "He didn't see lights in the sky. He saw them as a grid of black vacuum coordinates—points of data that he practiced since he was young."
he raised his other hand. He didn't gesture wildly; he moved his fingers in a precise, gripping motion, as if he were physically plucking a single thread from a loom.
After a heavy silence, she gave a single, slow nod, a movement that carried the weight of her robust build.
Immediately after her gesture.
The excessive perimeter lights vanished with a sharp, suctioning vwoom, like the air itself had been inhaled by the shadows, a clean, aggressive snap that left the Maneaba ringing.
The darkness that followed was heavy. It was a cinematic black—thick enough to feel oppressive, yet the dying embers of the central hearth provided just enough under-lighting to catch the whites of eyes and the glint of sweat on skin.
Tambo was a mere silhouette in the gloom, his massive frame blending into the pillars.
Tantei remained frozen, the faint amber glow carving his ghostly features into a silver-gray statue.
Tako looked to the side, his head darting around him as if expecting an attack from the dark.
Tinko just stared at the sight before him, unmoving and eerily calm.
The soundscape shifted from the music to the aggressive, wet hiss of the snuffed torches and the low, rhythmic groaning of the timber overhead as the wind picked up.
The Chats:
"Why are the lights are off?" — A deep, gravelly voice cut through from the far left, carrying a heavy, melodic Kiribati accent. The vowels were elongated and the "t" sounds were soft, almost hissed.
"What's going on here?" — This voice was lighter, rising in pitch with an unfiltered curiosity that belonged to someone younger.
"My soul almost left my body." — This voice was low, breathy, and dry, delivered with a rhythmic flatness that stood out against the others.
The silence remained Leaden and oppressive. The air felt cold, the breeze swooped in soundless with a suffocating blend of sweet, cloying frangipani and the acrid, metallic tang of cold salt.
In the middle. RUOIA-TABAKEA (THE STONE-SHELLED TRANCE-WALKERS)
They stood in a crescent formation, their bodies angled with a predatory grace.
They didn't slouch. Their chests were broad and slicked with a heavy coating Te Boi oil, their spines straight as the masts of their voyaging canoes. They looked like a single, multi-limbed organism waiting for a command.
They wore Te Kabae, waistbands of braided human hair that looked like dark, weathered rope cinched tight over their hips. Their skirts, the Te Itoi, were crafted from sun-bleached pandanus leaves. In the low amber light, the leaves looked like shards of ancient parchment, bone-white and sharp.
The sequence began not with a sight, but with a physical assault on the senses.
BOOM.
The Te Baurua—a massive, communal wooden box—was struck with the combined force of a dozen palms. The sound was a subterranean thud that didn't just fill the Maneaba; it vibrated the marrow in Tako's bones, he recoiled slightly in widened eyes, looking at Tinko and then forward again,
A collective, ragged gasp was pulled from a dozen throats—a sound of oxygen being stolen.
The human shadows on the sidelines didn't flinch; their small, jarring shocks of laughter were the only things that stayed in rhythm with the blow.
One man in the center of the Ruoia-Tabakea—his neck corded with tension—snapped his head back. From his throat erupted a possessed, melodic
"Cha!"
It was a rhythmic exhale, sharp as a glass shard, vibrating with a haunting, high-frequency pitch that seemed to soar toward the thatch before cutting off abruptly.
Without the support of a single instrument, a small sub-group of the crew stepped forward. Their voices were punchy and dry, delivered in a staccato cadence that felt like the gears of a massive, ancient clock grinding into motion. They spoke of the unfolding:
"E taba naba te burao... E kabaia te taari... E uti te bwi n roro..."
The phrases weren't sung; they were spat with a precise, clarity.
As the last word left their lips,
The rest of the crescent Formation dropped into a low, vibrating hum, a wall of sound that was mechanical and broken, yet deeply melancholic that sounded like a choir of ghosts mourning a Loom. It pulsed in a 4/4 signature, but every fourth beat felt "stuttered," as if the melody itself was struggling to stay alive.
They began to move.
It wasn't fluid; it was tectonic. With every pulse of the hum, the Ruoia-Tabakea shifted their weight, their bone-white Te Itoi skirts clattering with a sound like rain on a tin roof.
The hum deepened, curdling into a melodic dissonance that felt like a funeral dirge sung by the wind. It was a "broken" harmony—three distinct vocal layers that didn't quite mesh, creating a hypnotic, phasing effect.
Through this wall of sound, the Te Kaimatoa—the "song of the enduring land"—began to bleed through the rhythmic cracks.
The melody didn't just climb; it spiraled upward in a haunting, minor-key Te Anene. The voices of the elders drifted into a hollow, melancholic moan that sounded like the island itself was grieving a loss it hadn't yet suffered.
Their movements shifted.
The dancers' torsos began a slow, agonizing Te Karuo. They didn't just lean; they drifted like kelp in a deep current, their spines curving in a fluid, side-to-side oscillation that mirrored the "phasing" effect of the music.
Their hands remained in the horizontal Te Kawawa plane, but the stiff "vibrato" changed.
Now,
their fingers moved in a Te Kabuki—a slow, rippling wave that started at the shoulder and traveled to the fingertips, making their arms look like they were made of water rather than bone.
As the voices reached a high, mournful peak, the dancers executed the Te Bino n Roro—the "Deep Ancestral Seating."
They sank lower into their crouch, their eyes tracking an invisible point in the rafters.
With every melancholic dip in the song, they performed the Te Mwaie: a sharp, vertical "bounce" of the shoulders that occurred only on the off-beat. It was a jarring, rhythmic sob—a physical manifestation of the melody's "broken" nature.
The Te Baurua box was no longer being struck with fists; the elders used the Te Kabae boards to create a shimmering, high-frequency shirr-tink that sounded like wind moving through dry glass.
Suddenly, the lead singer's voice broke into a jagged, rhythmic cry:
"E nang o... E nang riri te aba... E mate te ran!" (The sky is turning... The land is angry... The water is dead!)
The dancers' bodies reacted with a Te Katei—a sudden, rigid suspension.
They tilted backward until their muscles were screaming, their "Hollow Orbits" fixed on the peoples form with unblinking clarity.
Teniko sat with her back against the weathered coral pillar, her posture as unyielding as the limestone itself. From this angle, the dancers were a blur of bone-white pandanus and polished mahogany skin moving in staccato jolts. The amber light of the Te Rama torch sliced across her face, highlighting the deep, analytical grooves around her eyes.
Beside her, Rania was leaned forward, her silhouette small against her mother's robust frame. The high-frequency Te Kabuki rippled of the dancers' arms seemed to fascinate her, reflecting in the dark honey of her wide, unblinking eyes.
When the melody took its most melancholic dip, Rania's hand moved instinctively to the center of her chest. She could feel the subterranean thud of the Te Baurua box vibrating through her palm, matching the frantic rhythm of her own heart.
She turned her head slightly toward Teniko, her face glowing with a sudden, pure radiance. "Yes. I love this song!" she whispered, her voice a fragile thread of joy in the heavy atmosphere.
Teniko looked away from the dance immediately. She turned to Rania and gave her a genuine, knowing smile—a brief flash of shared pride in their culture that softened the harsh lines of her jaw.
The Te Anene singers leaned into the center of the structure, their voices layering into a complex, rhythmic tapestry. The chant was no longer a background hum; it was a physical force, a Karioi that seemed to vibrate the very coral pillars against Tambo's chest. His expression formed a 'wow'
The lead chanter's voice rose, sharp and dry, cutting through the heavy air with a rhythmic command that the rest of the crew answered in a deep, staccato growl.
Lead: "E uatabo naba te aba nei!" (This land is waking now!)
Crew: "Cha! Cha! Cha!"
Lead: "E riri te tano, e mutiakina te ran!" (The soil is angry, the water is watching!)
Crew: "E-ia! E-ia! E-ia!"
Lead: "Te riri ni maka, e taba naba te burao!" (The power of the reef, the spirit of the depth unfolds!)
Chief Maluma sat with the absolute stillness of a mountain. His skin seemed to absorb the flickering orange light. His massive chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic cadence that matched the deep drone of the singers.
Opposite him, Kanka presented a different kind of intensity. Freshly bathed, he was now dressed in a traditional Banaban skirt, the dried pandanus fibers rustling softly against his thighs as he adjusted his seat. The garment, though new to him, felt heavy with the history of the island.
His red dreadlocks still were pulled tightly back and gathered into a large, high bun and clean
Maluma didn't just move; he encroached on the silence between them. He inclined his head until the architectural bun of Kanka's hair was nearly brushed by the Chief's shadow. "So, what do you think?"
Kanka: "Sorry?"
Maluma: "What's your thought on this?"
Kanka: "What are they singing about?"
Maluma: "Te-Rua-Abani."
Kanka: "Te-What?"
Maluma: "Te-Rua-Abani. The land spirit. The one that provides us resources and the air we breathe since the beginning of man. Every few years we organize a large feast to praise Te-Rua-Abani, and keep the memories of our ancestors alive."
Kanka: "Oh."
The dancers' bodies reacted to the "Cha!" shouts with violent, clinical precision.
On every "Cha!", the row of dancers snapped their heads toward the guests in a synchronized isolation.
It wasn't a turn; it was a mechanical jerk that ended in a dead halt.
Their hands, locked in the horizontal Te Kawawa plane, increased their vibration. The fingertips moved in a blur of motion so fast it appeared as a grey haze, while their shoulders remained as static as stone.
Maluma: "Did you express your culture this way back home?"
Kanka: "No. Well, some things are similar like the clothes, but the style and dance are new to us."
Maluma's lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "Well its nice when two cultures meet and share their own thoughts, however Liminal the Convergence," he whispered.
Kanka gave a slow, respectful nod. The movement was slight, chin dipped.
Maluma: You stand out from your brothers, Kanka. Not just in the architectural line of your hair, but in your observational character. Unlike them, you haven't spoken much. I admire that."
Kanka remained perfectly still, though his high-bun silhouette flickered against the orange glow of the dying hearth. He looked at his brothers that were fully immersed in the scene; he kept his eyes locked on the Chief once more.
Maluma: "Even if our lives differ, there is a certain aesthetic in your version of competence we greatly value. Silence is the first language of a leader. It means you are listening to the land, rather than your own breath."
Kanka gave a slow, measured nod, the high, structured bun of his hair moving with a singular, graceful precision. "In Fiji, we say the man who speaks the most is usually the one who is most afraid of the silence.
Maluma's eyes crinkled, reflecting the final amber sparks of the fire.
Maluma:That's largely true,.. But being silent isn't about being a Human-Read-Only mode for the sake of it. It's about active containment.
He leaned in, his shadow stretching up the coral pillar behind Kanka.
Maluma: "A dead object is silent because it is empty. But a fortress is silent because it is full to the brim with power that it refuses to let leak.
The vocalists drew in a collective, ragged breath, their chests expanding like bellows. Then, they spat the final syllable—a sharp, percussive "CHAI!"—that hit the air with the
force of a physical blow.
Immediately, the energy shifted.
They dropped into a low, vibrating Te Karuo—a vocal drone that mimicked the sound of the deep ocean grinding against the reef.
The melody didn't just climb; it spiraled in a minor key, carrying a heavy, melancholic weight that suggested the island was singing its own history.
The "Stone-Shelled" guardians weren't just dancing anymore; they were lamenting. Every jagged arm-snap and vibrating fingertip was an anchor being cast into the dark.
The music didn't fade—it was severed.
The final, high-pitched note was cut off by a single, massive
BOOM
from the wooden box. The sound was tectonic, a shockwave that rattled the marrow of Tako'a bones and sent a shudder through the architectural line of his shaggy hair again.
The dancers froze mid-lament, their vibrating hands still blurring the air, their bodies locked in that impossible tilt.
In the wake of the strike, a silence rushed in—not a peaceful quiet, but a predatory one.
A single, dying ember from the hearth threw one last flicker of amber light. Then, as if an invisible hand had closed over the world, the light was choked out.
The Maneaba vanished into a blackness so absolute it felt like being buried alive.