“Don’t waste too much time thinking on this son,” Faturaki said, “we will hoe tomorrow even without you.”

  Howaru heard his father while he walked from the circle but failed to acknowledge him. Kalapa leaned on the shelter wall and Howaru grabbed for his spear when he passed on his way towards the jungle path north.

  “I just need some space and time to decide,” he had explained earlier. What he didn’t mention was his unease about the eyes. How could he put it to words? He wanted to be alone again, away from expecting eyes, but this wasn’t something to be understood by all. Perhaps only Faturaki could relate to him, but under these circumstances, when his skills were needed back on Kafiki, any reluctance due to shyness would be seen as weakness overall. An act of a child. His adopted father had dealt with admirers and rivals for generations, enjoying the attention, why couldn’t I do the same?

  Light from the moon spilled over the jungle fronds uncovering some of the path ahead. When he recognised the breaking of thicket into sandy grass he moved westerly around the lagoon, keen to get to his favoured crabbing spot. At each step the lingering scent of smokey food and kava was replaced by a fresh ocean breeze blowing in from the west. Soon he was standing on the dunes overlooking the northern beach. This is where I feel most at peace, he decided, this is where I feel home. The thought was new to him and surprising. He had missed Kafiki for ten years and cursed the ground under him for the same amount of time. Only now, knowing Selai was unattainable, knowing that his fame meant there would always be the eyes watching him, did he appreciate the place where he stood.

  Howaru leaped down from the dunes to the bottom of the rise. His feet sunk into soft sand up to the ankle, still charged by Ra’s warmth. Shaking loose he walked onto the beach proper. Ahead of him, about a hundred paces away, lay a tall rock formation exposed and surrounded by the outgoing tide. It was his place to waste away the hours crabbing with Kalapa. A place to think while he poked around in the small caves and crevices between hard pressed rock. Once he was atop the craggy mess, piled to a height of twenty or so feet, it would be the platform from which he would decide his future. As he got closer and the sand became wet underfoot, his eyes roamed the beach for any sign he was not alone. Howaru scratched at the bruising on his jaw, well aware the last time he visited the northern beach left him broken. The injuries to his face and jaw were recent enough to make him wince with even a light touch. He wondered what to do if she appeared again, deciding that it was best to run instead of trying to seek some kind of revenge. They were the spawn of gods after all, imbued with mana, while he was a child born into captivity, forever absent of mana.

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  Thankfully, the beach was void of humans and human shaped gods for now. To the east he spotted a dozen or so large turtles about three hundred paces away, digging in the sand. It was a good sign - witnessing the seed of Takaroa burying eggs, and Howaru thanked his god for the privilege. He got no response back and realised since Faturaki’s arrival the ocean had become strangely silent. Or is it I who has stopped conversing with my Atua?

  By the time he reached the rocks and began to climb, Howaru had begun to wonder why the voice of Takaroa had left him? Was his invocation just a result of starvation? Had he succumbed to a temporary madness? Or perhaps the opposite, and he had ascended in stature to the level of a god himself? Once atop the craggy mound a whisper of breeze played across his face his mind began to settle. He remained facing north turning his attention skywards to the heavens searching out the multitude of stars for the Northstar, a familiar reference point.

  “Howaru,” called a watery voice from below him.

  At first he thought it was Takaroa and answered, “Takaroa?”

  “Howaru.”

  Several feet below lay a series of large boulders with a crevice between them wide enough to navigate all the way down to the sea. On the third sounding of his name he noticed a dark shadow was pressed low into the channel, hiding between the rocks.

  “Who is that down there?”

  Moving closer caused the shadow to retract and when Howaru stepped down onto the first boulder below, the shadow slipped entirely into the ocean, leaving him a view of tail thrashing in the waves before whatever it was sunk below the surface. Howaru frowned before asking again, “is that you Takaroa?”

  There was no response except for the tide beating against the base of the formation. And for the second time in ten years he felt he was being observed and exposed. His island, this pile of rocks, contained more life than just his own and it scared him. An awareness of the world creeping in, of god and man and even the unknown, left him uneasy. Howaru climbed back down to the beach. It seemed his return to Kafiki would be decided back at the shelter and here, where he might be attacked again. Then, as he began the walk back to his shelter and those pesky, expectant eyes, his name was called once more from direction of the sea. Turning to the tide confirmed he was not alone, for a woman had emerged from the waves.