Ho dipped his head, as he walked away, “I just need space and time to decide Fatu.”

“Don’t waste too much thinking on this son,” Faturaki said.

Now his shoulders sagged slightly as if trying to sink himself lower, and for the words of his father, whatever counsel was offered, to fly over him.

“We will hoe tomorrow, even without you.”

Still, Faturaki’s words pierced his mind, no matter how he tried to shrink from them. Even without you, he repeated inwardly—hurt rising instead of anger.

He would leave so soon?

Of course, fool.

Leaving the clearing, Ho saw Kalapa leaning against the shelter wall, his carved brow lifted in quiet sympathy. Ho clasped the spear’s haft in passing and turned toward the northern path.

Again the words echoed. Even without you. Ho—the champion of Kafiki. And why?

Under the night sky he breathed easier. His thoughts loosened and found their truth. Because Faturaki’s duty to Kafiki will always be greater than you, fool. Who are you, anyway? A nobody. An orphaned slave who dreams himself a child of gods.

“So be it,” he muttered. “I will not go back to be stared at like some cursed thing.”

Exactly, Kalapa offered gently. You’re still the champion as I see you, Ho.

Light from the moon spilled over the jungle fronds uncovering some of the path ahead. With it came a calm resolve: if they left him behind, the world would still turn. Perhaps peace could be found once again, when not under watch. For what he had not spoken of at the feast was the matter of the eyes. How could he? He longed for solitude—freedom from expectation. Yet, his adopted father had faced rivals and admirers alike and thrived in their gaze. Why, then, can I not do the same? When the thicket broke into sandy grass, he turned west around the lagoon toward his crabbing place. Ho fixed his gaze on the ground, listening to the breeze in the palms—a soft shaking, like the hips of dancers wearing skirts of tī leaves. He tried to picture them, the ones from his dreams. Beauty, to distract him. But Selai’s face rose in their place like she had in those same visions, and comfort became rejection. His thoughts returned to tomorrow. Is Faturaki more like him than he lets on? Hiding away on top of Takali Foto? Hiding his own fear of the eyes away. With each step, the scent of smoke and feasting faded, replaced by the salt wind flowing in from the west.

Perhaps only Faturaki understood. That was why he could leave. A man of caves and height, untouched by hearth or family. Even the warmth of a woman could not hold him to the earth. What he offered was a choice—to be seen again, to serve something beyond Selai, beyond the ground, beyond myself—all of Kafiki.

But why should I care for duty? I owe Kafiki nothing.

Soon he stood upon the dunes above the northern beach. Here, he realised, was peace. Here was home. The thought startled him. Ten years he had missed Kafiki; ten years he had cursed her soil. Only now, with Selai lost to him and others still watching, did he feel the place beneath his feet claiming him.

Ho leaped down from the dunes to the foot of the rise. The sand received him softly, warm to the ankle with the stored breath of Rā. Shaking it free, he walked on to the open beach. Ahead, a hundred paces off, a tall rock stood ringed by the falling tide—his old crabbing ground with Kalapa. A place for thought, for silence, for the small rituals of searching among the tide-caves. When he reached the crag and climbed its twenty-foot crown, he told himself it would serve as a platform from which to choose his future.

As the sand darkened and wetness clung to his soles, he searched the beach for company. If Arahuta and Loha came again, he would run. Not fight. His hand rose to his jaw—the ache still there from the day the god-spawn broke him. Even a gentle touch brought pain.

They were born of gods, filled with mana. He was born in bondage, emptied of it.

The shore lay quiet. No humans, no god-shaped shadows. Far to the east, a dozen great turtles clawed at the sand. A good sign, he thought—the seed of Takaroa returning to the earth. He bowed his head in thanks. The sea gave no reply. Since Faturaki’s coming, the ocean had fallen silent. Or have I been the one who stopped listening to my atua?

By the time he reached the rocks and began to climb, Ho was already wondering why the voice of Takaroa had left him. Was the god’s reply only a hunger-dream? Had madness seized him, or had he risen, for a moment, among the gods himself? Atop the crag, Kalapa steadying him, he let the sea-wind breathe across his face and remembered to breathe with it. His mind quieted. Facing north, he lifted his eyes to the heavens, searching the bright scatter for Hokupa‘a, the steadfast star that never strays.

“Ho,” called a watery voice from below.

He straightened. “Takaroa?”

“Howaru of Feke.”

Beneath him a cluster of boulders opened into a narrow passage leading to the sea. On the third calling of his name he saw a dark shape pressed low within the channel, hiding between the rocks.

“Who speaks?”

When he moved closer the shadow shrank away. Stepping down onto the first stone, he saw a tail strike the water before vanishing into the depths.

“Takaroa—is that you?” he asked.

Only the tide answered, beating its rhythm against the rock.

For the second time in ten years he felt the eyes of the unseen upon him. His island—his refuge of silence—was alive, inhabited by more than coconut palms and crabs. The knowing of it unsettled him, left him exposed as the sands at low tide. His decision to return to Kafiki would have to be made elsewhere, and if at his shelter, under Faturaki’s watch. He sighed and climbed down to the beach. Even upon a pile of rocks on an empty beach, he could find no solitude. And as he headed back home—and those ever-watching eyes—his name rose again from the sea. Howaru turned, and saw her: a woman emerging from the waves.