Ho led the way around the lagoon toward the island’s centre, where fallen branches tangled across the path and a rough southerly tore through the trees

A few paces behind, on his right flank, walked Faturaki; further back followed Galiaga and Sinakoa. Their feet struck Papatūānuku in time, drumming the hardened sand. The two brothers lagged behind, burdened by the pig, slaughtered moments earlier on shore. It hung bound and swaying from the steering oar balanced across their shoulders, leaving a dark trail of blood along the track.

Faturaki was close enough that Ho could hear the rattle of his breath and feel his father’s eyes upon him. Was the old man worried for his condition—or sizing him up as he would any warrior before battle? Had he been sent to test him?

The eyes of Faturaki, always sharp, famous for finding weakness where others saw none, were fixed on him now. Under their weight, the old obligations returned—settling like a heavy cloak across his shoulders.

He could almost hear his father’s judgment: Despite his thinness, the boy stands in fair shape. Ten years in exile have not undone him. No lameness, no wasting sickness. That face, though: fresh from a beating. Mostly bones now, with the muscle gone slack. But a few good feeds will fix that. A week, maybe two, and he’ll be himself again.

Perhaps he was too generous, for as they rounded a bend in the grassy track, Ho pointed out an exposed pandanus root—then promptly tripped on another.

“Watch your step,” Faturaki warned, too late.

Ho stumbled and crashed into the sand, then rose at once, laughing. “I forgot about that one.”

Ho pressed ahead, unwilling to turn and show his embarrassment to the others—least of all to Faturaki. Yet the judgment in his head kept pace beside him, darkening: Clumsy, as always. Gifted by the gods in size yet never mastering his strength. Weak-minded, always seeking the easier path. Prone to distraction—women most of all—a child still craving approval and the comfort of a mother he never knew. And when he finds none, he turns to the bowl and the puga root, draining his own mana until nothing remains but pride and hollowness. Easily led by praise, quick to anger when denied it. When he left ten years ago, I felt relief at last—to be freed of the burden of a boy not born of my blood, who carries no thread of my sacred line.

He froze mid-step. The words did not feel entirely his own. They came with a pressure, a slow tightening behind his eyes, as though another voice had slipped in unseen.

Was that him? he wondered. Is the old man walking inside my head again?

He glanced back, but Faturaki only trudged along the path, face unreadable beneath the torchlight.

Still, the voice lingered, heavy as stone.… and yet, even now, I cannot unbind him.

Halfway along the track, once Ho had found his voice again, he said to his father, “You arrived in the worst part of the storm season. The trade winds have already shifted.”

“The winds died halfway here,” Faturaki replied, coughing. “We lost three days because of it—and two crew.”

Ho slowed at the news, allowing the tohunga to draw level. “Two from Feke?”

They came out onto the beach’s edge where the grass met the broken jungle. Uprooted coconuts lay across one another, storm-bleached and bare.

“Yes,” said Faturaki. “Maika and Pareora—brother and sister to Hekina. You remember him, the spear fisher?”

“He stayed on the western side of Feke, aye?”

“He thought it good for the young ones to learn long-voyaging.”

“Hekina gave permission—against the wife’s wishes,” Galiaga added softly.

“They were both taken by a taniwha while fishing, on the third day,” called Tufukia from the rear.

“One of Namaka’s brood,” Tu‘unaga said, voice low.

Sinakoa spoke next. “She’s protective of her domain—and shows no bias toward people.”

Ho nodded once but did not answer. Since their arrival, he had paid little heed to the others, giving his attention to the tohunga alone, as was proper. There would be time enough to speak with the crew once they sat to eat.

Still, the news pressed against him, heavy and needless. Such waste, he thought. And for what?

He pushed the thought aside and turned to the path ahead. “See the gaps in the trees, Fatu,” he said, using the short form of Faturaki’s name—a quiet mark of their bond.

“Yes—lightning?”

“Yes. But some there are mine,” Ho replied, pointing. “Burned a patch to coax the soil for taro.”

“There’s taro here?”

“No. But I’ve been praying to Takaroa to send me some.”

“He must have been too busy keeping the storm gods from wiping out this little rock.”

Ho smirked. “Little rock? How did you know that, Fatu?”

“Is that what you call this place?”

“Sometimes. Little Rock—or Takaroa’s backside, depending on my mood.”

Laughter rippled through the group as they pressed on through the bush. After hacking through a dense stand of fern and vine, they rounded a bend and stepped into a wide clearing.

“Welcome to my home,” Ho said, spreading his arms. “What do you think, Tohunga?”

Faturaki examined the carved atua summoners—the god-sticks—nodding at their form, praising the cuts of the adze and the balance of design. Circling the clearing, he approved of the site’s nearness to the tall coconut stand but frowned at the choice of timber.

Ho bit back the urge to correct him, toa trees don’t grow on a jungle beach, but held his tongue. This was a tohunga’s place to speak.

“I planted flax in rows after the second year,” he offered instead. “They’ve grown taller than me now. They break the northern and westerly winds.”

“What about water?”

“After the first year I learned the moods of the storms,” said Ho. “They mostly come from the south, so I set traps along the southern beach to catch the run-off.”

Faturaki grunted, still circling. His eyes moved over the clearing’s clean order—every fern and overgrown grass cleared away, leaving a full ring of soft ground bordered by palms. At the north edge stood a raised hut, shoulder-high from the earth, roofed with palm fronds. Tapa mats lined its floor, walls, and ceiling—a crude but clever shield against the weather.

Near the centre, a coral oven glowed with buried heat, and beside it a fire pit framed with half-sections of coconut trunk for sitting. Two smaller shelters ran along the southern border; Ho gestured to them.

“They hold the gourds, the shells, my spears and hooks—my weapons, too,” he said with a faint smile. “A man needs something to keep his hands busy.”