As Rā began his descent, the largest tapa mat in Ho’s humble collection, stained and worn at the edges, was unrolled beside the fire pit

The air thickened with the scent of smoke and salt.

Without needing to be told, the warriors began to ready the meal: peeling coconut leaves to wrap the meat, grating for milk, stripping flesh from the dried fish, and laying out the food gifts they had carried from the waka—delicacies Ho had only dreamt of for ten long years.

His belly grumbled its plea, and he hushed it with a whisper, distracting himself by tearing the two remaining tapa mats from his shelter wall. He handed one to Faturaki and set the other on the ground beside the fire pit, gesturing for his father to sit.

“If I had any kava, I’d offer it.”

Faturaki waved the comment away with a faint smile before asking, quietly, “Tell me, Ho… do you feel changed, these ten years alone?”

“Yes, I truly do,” Ho said. “I don’t know if I can ever hold mana as the ariki do—to wield it in the sacred arts—but it no longer troubles me. I am a warrior, and I’ll die one. There’s no shame in that. A farmer, a weaver, a spearfisher, a tohunga, a chief—we all serve the same purpose: to keep the tribe alive.” He reached for a strip of dried fish and turned it over in his hands, letting the oils glint in the firelight.

“Very good,” Faturaki said, grinning. “I used to say something like that in my welcome speeches—then add, ‘and Falahine down at the sea wall, sucking cock,’ which set the old women cackling like gulls.” The warriors nearby chuckled, pretending not to listen. Ho smiled, shaking his head.

“What about sleep?” Faturaki continued. “Do you dream again? Before you left, you hadn’t slept in moons. You were dangerous—not only to yourself, but to others.”

Ho thought for a moment. Was I truly dangerous? There had been sickness then—a kind of fever that dulled his mana and left only shadow behind. And the thirst for puga, the brew that let him glimpse mana in others, but never in himself. Violence had followed that thirst. He nodded slowly. “Yes. When I came here, it took years for my spirit to settle again. Do you think I became violent because I wasn’t sleeping?”

Faturaki stayed silent, shifting his weight on the mat. Still unsatisfied, he rose stiffly and found a new place by the fire opposite Ho. He folded his legs as he always had, with a chief’s care, groaning at some hidden ache. “You carried too much mana once,” he said at last. “Then it was stolen. In its place grew a poison—thick and black, feeding on itself. That is your sickness, Ho. You were never without mana; it was taken from you before you ever learned how to wield it.”

Ho had no answer. For years he had believed utu against his Autara captors had cured the sickness in him, that the blood spilled had balanced what was wrong. Yet when he closed his eyes, he could still feel the echo of those old deeds: the wet warmth as his thumbs sank through the eyes of sleeping men. The darkness inside him had only shifted shape, learning to speak in new ways. Ho stared into the fire. “What if it was never stolen,” he asked. “But the mana itself has been cursed?”

Faturaki did not answer at once. Ho could barely make him out through the firelight, half-hidden in the shadows of the surrounding bush, thumb rubbing the ridge of his jaw, tracing the scarred lines of his ta moko, his eyes fixed on the fire. “No. Not possible. Unless…”

Faturaki paused.

“Unless what, father?”

There were truths better left unspoken—answers that could drag a man beneath the water just as he began to surface. Perhaps Faturaki had arrived at such a truth. Was that the purpose of his questions, then Ho wondered, to get answers to a mystery before sending him back to Kafiki?

“Unless what Fatu?” Ho tried again.

Faturaki shifted once more on the mat. “It’s nothing, Ho. Don’t worry. It won’t be that.” Then, quickly, he asked, “When you think of the last time you held Totokona, what do you feel?”

Ho hesitated. Totokona in his hands. Puga in his blood. The child’s head in the grass, blurred and dim. The rest was gone. “I feel nothing.”

“I see.”

“Is that good, Fatu? That I can’t remember or feel it?”

“To forget, to move on—maybe. For you, perhaps it’s mercy.” Faturaki shifted, staring into the fire. “I’m so old I remember little now. Wives, children, enemies, friends—all fade as the body spoils. Even the feelings. What I’d give to feel my cock stir again! You could cut it off, wrap it in taro leaves, bake it in the oven, and serve it back to me, and I’d feel nothing.”

Ho winced, half a smile tugging at his lips.

“But you,” Faturaki went on, “you should still feel. Feelings make you human. You still have life, boy. The gods haven’t turned from you yet.”

Faturaki reached for Kalapa, lying nearby. With its head, he flicked a twig through the flames toward Ho; Ho caught it before it struck his face.

“Your body and mind are still sharp.”

“I have some skill left, Father.”

“Aē. And they’ll be needed soon. The tribe of Matavai asks for you—by name. By the chief himself.”

Ho nodded, curiosity stirring, but his own burdens pushed forward first. “I’ve been dreaming again these last few years.”

“Dreams?”

“Yes.” He lowered his voice. “A black cloud. It descends from above—heavy, suffocating, stinking of death.”

“Go on. Do you know its source?”

“Yes… I think so.”

He paused. A warm, rich scent filled the air. He sniffed. It was flesh—pig, not fish—the fat dripping into flame. His mouth flooded.

“The smell is too much!”

Faturaki chuckled. “Eat the dried fish, at least, while we wait.”

“The fish would only take up space best saved for meat,” Ho said, laughing through his hunger. “Go on—what do Matavai want?”

Faturaki sighed, then called out to Sinakoa to fetch his own spear from beside the hut. The laughter thinned. Shadows climbed the palm trunks. Faturaki cleared his throat, and the fire crackled an answered. When it was in his hand, he crouched close to the flames for light and drew lines in the sand.

“Matavai holds one of the largest rohe on Kafiki. You know this. It starts at the base of the volcano and runs south and east to the coast, swallowing the lands that once belonged to the first tribesmen.”

Faturaki traced the spearpoint through the sand, sketching the cone of a volcano. He dragged its tip downwards, carving a river. Smoke curled low over the map, mirroring the mists that hung over the Matavai rohe. “The Matavai River runs from the high village, along the ranges they call Mahana—named for their old snake god. It winds all the way to the base of Takali Foto. I forget where it forks, but near the southern border lies a sacred waterfall, Ulu Waimate. The people avoid it. Taniwha have been seen drinking there.”

He paused, pressing the spear’s butt into the sand. “Five days ago, the chief’s son, Teā, was taken. The tribe believes it was the work of the thing haunting their rohe these past ten years—about as long as you’ve been gone. They call him the Baby Eater, for he steals only children. A few slaves escaped, and two women have seen him with their own eyes.”

Ho frowned. “What does it look like? Sounds more like an animal—or a creature.”

“Sit here, boy.” Faturaki patted the mat beside him.

Ho obeyed, moving closer.

“He’s like you,” Faturaki whispered. “A man—but larger than any on the island. Even you.”

The fire popped, sending sparks between them.

“That will be something new to witness, then,” Ho muttered.

Faturaki hesitated, eyes flicking toward the crew now gathered near the oven, their laughter rising over the smell of roasted meat. He leaned closer and said quietly, “The two sons of the Matavai chief—Tufukia and Tu‘unaga—are half-brothers to the boy Teā. They came to remind you of your last act of blood, and to demand utu from Feke, your own tribe by adoption. They do not seek payment in kind. Instead, you are the offering, the utu itself, sent to balance their loss.”

He reached and gripped Ho’s wrist, his voice low as a karakia. “By finding Teā and killing this monster—by silencing the wailing of mothers and fathers—you will earn more than peace. Matavai will forget your past. You’ll be free of the stain you left behind. Do you understand?”

Ho met his father’s gaze and nodded. “I understand.”

“Good,” said Faturaki, smiling faintly. “Then let us eat.”

When the stars of Hōkūpa‘a, Hōkūle‘a, and Te Piringa-o-te-rangi shone above, their light caught in the rising embers of a tired fire, it was time to feast.

Torches were lit and speared into the ground. The pig was lifted from the umu and placed carefully in the centre of the mat. Beside it, banana leaves steamed with Ho’s own preserved fish, their salt now mellowed by the earth oven. Fresh tāmure and octopus, caught that morning by Galiaga and soaked in coconut milk, were wrapped in leaf parcels and passed around. Other provisions from the waka completed the spread: taro, banana, shell gourds. Then came the surprise of kava. Gourds of it, hidden from him until now, presented as gifts. Prayers, songs, and welcoming speeches followed, customary for all Kafiki tribes, before Ho was permitted to eat. Only then did he notice the eyes. He had forgotten about the eyes.

To his left sat Faturaki, who nodded solemnly before offering him the pig’s shoulder. To his right, Sinakoa poured kava, eyes still on him, her knee brushing his. Smoke from the umu clung to each mouthful, and fat stained his fingers. When the bone was clean, he moved on to the raw fish.

Across from him, Tufukia elbowed Tu‘unaga, and both brothers paused mid-bite to watch. Always too many eyes, he thought. Even in the most sacred ceremonies, someone would break the ritual to stare. Some eyes were wide with reverence, others sharp with jealousy.

By the time Marama, the moon goddess, climbed to her highest arc, Ho was the last still eating. He sifted through the bones, chewing at what little meat and fat remained. Around the fire the others waited in silence, content to watch, as though even his smallest act were worth their patience.

After ten years without human company, their awe felt like a draught of water—fellowship disguised as worship. Perhaps this was the price of being seen again.

He kept his eyes low, searching the mat for another piece of meat.

“Had enough, boy?” called Faturaki, seated cross-legged by the fire.

“I should be. Just making sure nothing goes to waste.”

“Good. You’ll need your strength again soon. But come, sit here. Rest a while.”

Galiaga sat cross-legged and began a proper kava ceremony. He poured the brew into a single tortoiseshell bowl, filled it to the brim, and passed it to his left.

All sang the drinking song—slapping hands and thighs, adding a new gesture each round. The rhythm rose with laughter and the sweet earth scent of kava filled the clearing. Ho laughed loudest, letting the dirt-coloured drink spill down his beard as he lost round after round on purpose, just to drink more. The others cheered each time he choked back another bowl. “Father,” he called, wiping his mouth, “let the boys keep at their games. Fetch me a gourd! I can’t wait this long for a drink!”

It came out more command than request. Half-drunk and wholly restless, he waved off the formalities. Faturaki shook his head, muttering into his beard, but rose anyway to fetch another gourd from the hut.

When the old man was gone, Galiaga set aside his bowl. “Enough of me pouring. Come, let’s piss, brother.”

Ho nodded and pointed toward the beach. “It’s lighter down there, bro. I don’t want to piss on my feet.”

Galaiaga stumbled through the palms ahead of him, then they both broke into a sprint, racing for the water, laughing and trying to trip each other. Tokoroa sang in soft-breaking waves that caught the goddess Marama’s light.

“It’s good to see you alive,” Galiaga said first as they relieved themselves into the sea. Two streams joined the tide, swallowed without comment.

“I almost didn’t recognise you in your state. You look bad, bro. Flesh thinned out.” He drew a lazy circle in the air around his face. “But your nose—what happened there?”

“I was…” Ho hesitated, unwilling to admit defeat. “Wave catching. Takaroa tricked me. I smashed into coral.”

He turned the question. “And you? Tell me about Kafiki. What did I miss?”

Galiaga laughed, tying his maro. “What didn’t you miss? Three wars for a start. Ahukai’s the strongest tribe now—and I married one of theirs. As a second wife.”

He puffed out his chest. “Four more children. Two sons already old enough to spear fish, and both families living in Ahukai rohe now. The chiefs know my name, and the women—well, they remember it.”

Ho laughed and clapped Galiaga’s shoulder. “You always did breed trouble faster than fish. You live beside Takali Foto now?”

“I am chief of a small village in the foothills.”

“You’ve done well, Galiaga. So how has a chief of Ahukai blood been allowed to join this waka to find me?”

Galiaga’s grin thinned. “Did Faturaki tell you about the Baby Eater?”

“Aē. He did.”

“Did he describe him?”

“Only to say he wasn’t a monster.”

“He is a monster. They say he’s eaten over three hundred children.”

Ho slowed, turning toward his shelter. Further along the beach, he could see Faturaki’s bent figure in the torchlight, searching the waka for another gourd of kava.

Galiaga kept pace beside him, his stride light and bouncy, more leap than walk. “He’s you,” he said quietly. “That’s what the slaves in Matavai believe.”

Ho stopped. “Why would they think this creature is me?”

“Because of that crazy healer, Selai. Your old wife. She believes you stole her son. That’s why the Chief of Matavai sent two of his own household here—to bear witness, in case the island was empty. To confirm her story.”

“She thinks I’m—” The surge of vomit came so fast he didn’t finish. His stomach emptied, splattering the sand.

“Ah, bro! What a waste of good food!” Galiaga doubled over, cackling into the clear night. “When I heard the talk, I was first to volunteer to find you. I knew there’s no way my bro’s the Baby Eater.”

Ho stayed crouched, one knee in the sand, spitting bile. Galiaga’s laughter echoed down the beach before fading into the palms.

Alone, Ho wiped his mouth and looked out over the dark water. The taste of salt and sickness clung to his tongue. Selai believes I took her son. He searched the tide for memory and found only shadows. What if I did something I don’t remember? He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the old burn of shame stirring again.

By the time he returned to the fire circle, the giant turtle shell had been refilled. Tufukia and Tu‘unaga rinsed the kava, while Sinakoa, Faturaki, and Galiaga spoke in low voices. They fell silent as Ho sat down on the mat. He traced a loosened thread in the weave. Once, at a Feke festival, Selai had mended a mat like this with her teeth and a grin, saying, ‘Ko te whare, ko te whāriki—the house is the mat.’ The thread was too far pulled now.

His mouth was numb, his tongue heavy, but all he wanted now was sleep.

Sensing his weariness, Faturaki spoke before the kava was poured. “Galiaga told you something that’s unsettled you, boy? Look at me.”

Ho met his father’s stare—ancient eyes that could see through flesh to spirit. “No. It was the meat. My stomach has gone too long without it.”

“Do you need rest?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good.” Faturaki nodded once. “Then let me continue.”

“Selai had her boy Teā soon after you left. The Matavai believe the god Wātea breathed his hā into her. But Matavai’s rivals—the smaller tribes bordering its rohe, including Feke—spread gossip that you are the father, and that through the boy you prove yourself a demigod.”

He felt sick again, swallowing bile before croaking, “Father to the boy?”

Faturaki waved away the question. “You should know they believe this boy is special. His skin is pale as light, and they call him White Miromiro because of a prophecy. This boy Teā stands apart among the Matavai children—equally revered and despised. He was worshipped as a baby in his home village. Word quickly spread across the island that a new demigod had been born. Soon Selai drew as much attention as the boy.”

Faturaki coughed before adding quietly, “the abandoned wife of Ho.”

Ho dropped his gaze to the ground and said nothing.

“In time, Chief Kuanua came to the village to see the boy—and then Selai herself. After some summers had passed, she became his third wife.”

His father’s words struck harder than Arahuta’s fists, harder than a fish to the face by Tāwhiri. She is married. The only one worth returning for. Custom and his name as the rock of Kafiki kept him seated. I am a great champion and warrior. I am immovable. He told himself the words again and again. Yet in his heart he longed to run into the sea and weep where only Tokoroa could see. Instead he said, “Go on. I am listening.”

Faturaki shifted closer to the fire, the glow deepening the lines in his face.

“Selai has done much to wound your name since you were gone—perhaps rightly so. Or perhaps only to preserve herself. She is still much desired as a woman.” Ho drew a slow breath through his teeth. “Now she speaks before the people, letting her stories drift from village to village—that Teā is a child of the gods. It’s clever. It has given the boy a sacred standing in the chief’s household, though I imagine it has angered the other wives.”

He poked the fire with his spear, scattering sparks. “The Matavai, even the slaves, believe he is the son of Wātea. And through him, Kuanua’s reach across the rohe grows. But the rest of the island still whispers your name, Ho. Some believe you are the god who made him.”

Ho’s stomach tightened; he watched the flame twist around the spear’s point.

“Whether or not you are the father,” Faturaki went on, “remember this: Ahukai may have the most warriors, but Matavai hold the most slaves—and with them, the true strength of the island.” He leaned back, eyes reflecting the firelight. “You’re returning to Kafiki in the season of a rising wind. Every step you take, every word, will be watched—more closely once the boy is found and brought home.”

Faturaki gestured to someone beyond the fire, his eyes still fixed on the woven mat between them. A coconut shell of water was set before Ho.

“Drink, son.”

Ho drank, looked up at his father, and asked, “Am I the boy’s father?”

Faturaki shook his head and said nothing. Ho exhaled; his faith in the old man—the island’s most powerful, most revered tohunga—was complete.

“And Selai thinks I am that thing—the eater of children?”

Faturaki nodded. “Aē.”

“She doesn’t want me back then?”

“She wants her son. That is all. She will find any path the gods permit. Matavai ask that you find Teā and kill the thing that steals children. There will be no utu given to your tribe Feke for it. You will be the utu—the balance they demand. Will you do this, Ho?”

Ho looked again at the Matavai rohe, at the river Faturaki had scored in the sand, and finally answered, “I will give them what they want.”