“Did my daughter Arahuta visit this island?”

Ho froze. The woman who rose from the surf was no mortal. Twice the height of humankind, hair dark and slick, her golden skin traced in blue patterns of Atua lineage. His belly tightened with the same dread Arahuta and Loha had left with him. Not keen on being smashed by another goddess. When she was ten paces away, she halted, sensing his caution he suspected.

“Are you Ho?” she asked. Her voice sounded as if under water.

He swallowed. “Yes.”

“And did my daughter fall from the sky here yesterday? Did she fight you?”

“She told me my name had been summoned,” said Ho. “A blood sacrifice required.”

“Was she alone?”

“No—there was a cousin, Loha.”

“I see. Then their mischief grows clearer. Do not be afraid of any further violence from those two. I will send them back to a time where there formation can be circled again, more loving perhaps. Less able to be manipulated by their father. He can be so pathetic.”

She turned toward the sea before singing something in a tongue he did not recognise—and as her song quickened Papatūānuku moved underfoot. Not harshly, as she did after an announcement from Takali Foto. This was a shiver more than a shake. Ho was awestruck by the power of this goddess. Afraid she would simply vanish, he broke spell calling, “Don’t leave goddess. Can you answer why I was summoned?”

The moon held her in silver light. “Why?” she echoed.

“What offence have I made that Wātea should demand my blood?”

“Who said you angered Wātea?” She faced him again, and he felt a pull in his limbs—his right foot stepping forward against his will.

“Who are you, O great god?”

The left followed, then the right again, clumsy and unwilling. The goddess smiled.

“I forget my tide draws all things. Men especially. My body, porous as coral rock, calls to be covered and protected by the world. Or are you more of an eel, Ho—one who longs to hide himself inside my caves?”

“Aue,” he groaned. “I am only a man, as I told your daughter. But tell me, divine one—who are you? Do you intend to carry out the summons?”

“Do you not know?” She laughed softly. “I am your god. I am Na-Mala-o-Kala‘i, Goddess of Water and the Sea.”

“Na-Mala-o-Kala‘i… of the West?”

She examined herself, then struck a playful pose. “In the flesh, I suppose.” His breath caught. He recalled Arahuta standing just so—the same tilt of the head, the same proud grace. The gesture was her mother’s gift, learned from this goddess of impossible beauty.

The trembling in his legs gave way to steady steps. To stand before her, to hold her gaze, felt like standing within a rising tide.

“I worship Takaroa of the eastern seas,” he said, “but I have heard your name among the Ahukai and the eastern rohe of Kafiki.”

Her power, divine aura, mana as pure and dense, thickened the air rippled outward, golden threads brushing his skin, with streaks of pink and purple tongues that lapped at him—tickling, warmth. “You have heard of me? I am flattered.”

He stopped within reach. “I was the champion of Kafiki,” he said. “I travelled widely.”

“And am I a goddess you could worship?”

“I—” The word caught in his throat. His body moved before his thought. “Takaroa is not a jealous god,” he murmured. “He would not mind.”

Her smile deepened. “Then come, Ho—worship.”

***

Wrapped in her arms, Ho felt safe and warm—two sensations he had never known together. Holding something greater than himself, vibrant and powerful, stirred a memory within him—of infancy, of being held before the world turned hard. Their union had been slow and deliberate. In its quiet wake he felt emptied, on the edge of sleep.

“Ho,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“I must return home.”

“Not yet. Just a few more moments.”

“I am a god,” she said, “and an ocean of concerns waits upon me.”

“But what of me—and my concern?”

Na-Mala-o-Kala‘i rose. Sand slipped from her back and thighs. The blue markings of her skin came alive, glowing and flowing like the tide.

He reached out, tracing one curve upon her leg, unable to resist her current. She laughed softly. “You are like a restless child.”

“I only wish to play, O goddess.”

“These are not words of play.” Her smile faded. “The world you know changes swiftly—and you are changing with it.”

“I have no wish to return,” said Ho. “Let me stay here forever. You can visit each night.”

“But I will not. I came to right my daughter’s wrong. You must go back to Kafiki, or you will never be free of her or those like her. Once your name is called from the dark, many will come to claim the debt.”

He felt her tide withdraw. “Then you stopped Arahuta from killing me?”

“Yes,” she said. “I drew her and Loha into my waves and cast you back upon the shore. But I cannot always be near. Takaroa owes me no favour—we are rivals, not lovers. That is why you must return to Kafiki, where you are not alone, and where the gods who favour you still dwell.”

“I am favoured?” he asked, the strange power that bound them now ebbing from his limbs.

“Of course,” she said. “And desired.”

Ho laughed softly. “Desired? By the gods?”

“We cannot look away. You walk a path that bends the heavens themselves.”

He lifted his gaze to the night sky. The stars hung low and close, crowding above them—Matariki, the cluster of promise, Hokulei the bright crown, Na Mahoe, the twin lights of the horizon. The whole firmament seemed to draw near, watching.

“Humans can never be left alone?” he murmured. He had stepped a little apart from her, though her warmth still clung to him.

“Humans can never forget their past,” she answered. “Your ancestry burns among those stars, Ho. You are of both seed and light. Even now, the union between us has written a new thread in the sky.”

“Could I truly do that?” he asked. “I thought myself born without mana.”

She smiled and reached for him. “You have mana, hidden deep. It only waits to be remembered.”

He folded into her embrace, the gesture less of desire than of return. “Then why can I not summon it, as a true tohunga might?”

“Because you were not made to chant or conjure,” said Na-Mala-o-Kala‘i. “You were made to act. Does the octopus ask why he has eight arms? He simply moves with them. So must you. Accept your strength, Ho—and use it wisely.”

Around them, the tide crept higher, whispering against the sand. The goddess’s voice softened. “Go back to Kafiki when the sun rises. The ocean will remember you, and so will I.”

The surf broke once, twice—then stilled.

When Ho looked up again, she was gone. Only the pattern of her light remained upon the water. Ho turned inland. A great weariness took him; his limbs felt heavy, yet within that weight lay something new—a gift beyond flesh. It was tenderness itself: the remembered feeling of being held, of safety. A thread drawn from a mother’s embrace, faint but unbroken. Perhaps it led back to his birth, to his place in the weave, as the tohunga liked to say. That would be enough to call him back to Kafiki. The answer he owed Faturaki was ready.

Howaru climbed the dune, gripping the wet grass for purchase. At the crest two figures waited—Galaiga and Sinakoa. They nodded and smiled.

“How long were you two watching?” he asked.

Galaiga rose to his feet. “Faturaki sent us to keep an eye on you.”

“But how long?”

Sinakoa grinned. “We saw her come—and go.”

Ho shook his head and left them behind.

“She was a fine one, Ho,” Galaiga called after him. “A true god. Wait till Feke hears of this.”

“Your legend grows like a stiffening kiki!”

Ho only shrugged and carried onto the jungle path, leaving behind their laughter. He accepted that solitude was an illusion. Fame was a torch he would drown out completely, no matter how hard he tried. Observed by women and men alike, pursued by gods. But now something he feared lost had resurfaced. For Na-Mala-o-Kala‘i had gifted him hope. Her touch uncovered knowledge. Mana lived beneath his skin, waiting. She had confirmed what Faturaki suspected and the god Wātea had announced when he’d gotten close to death. If atua sense it, perhaps it is the truth. And if he could free his mana, he might burn away the shame of his past to reveal his origins. When he reached his shelter, he found the clearing stripped bare; even his sleeping platform had been taken apart, its logs feeding the firepit.

“What happened here?”

The brothers pointed eastward to the shore where the waka waited, its prow bright in the moonlight. “Faturaki told us to prepare,” said Galaiga. “He waits for you.”