The raft drifted aimlessly, swinging gently on the sea’s rippling surface. Kamolea sat cross-legged, leaning against the mast, and thoughtfully watched the distant sickle of hilly green land, wrapped in the shimmering haze.

If only I could somehow get away from this terrible place, he thought.

That morning he’d left before sunrise under the pretext of going fishing, but truthfully he couldn’t have cared less about fishing. All he’d wanted was to be alone. He’d hurried to the shore and dragged his raft into the water. The dawn found him in the open sea, wrapped by silence, broken now and then only by the shrill cries of the soaring birds.

Kamolea hauled down the sail, left the raft drifting, and remained still for a long time, immersed in thoughts, his gaze wandering into the distance and the breeze fondling his face.

Tomorrow was his warrior’s proof—the biggest day of his life, the turning point when he would become a man. Afterward, nothing would be the same. A crucial change was coming, and he was convinced that it boded no good.

Yesterday he undertook the final exam of his long and exhausting training. It was a tough one—he had to surprise Akamui during the daylight and bring him down in a close-up fight, simulating his killing with a wooden knife.

At sunrise, Kamolea was already lying in ambush around Akamui’s dwelling. He stalked him all morning without a result—Akamui was alert and jumpy and didn’t move far from his hut. About noon, Kamolea was beginning to lose hope when he heard the big bronze gong echo to announce an assembly of the Council.

“Perfect,” he muttered as the plan formed in a flash in his head.

He ran through the jungle and climbed to an enormous spreading tree, the branches of which overhung the path that Akamui always took on his way to the Heave. There he lay flat on a large bough, blending in with the dense greenery and biding his time. Soon Akamui appeared, walking stealthily. He stopped every several steps, listening closely. As Kamolea spotted him through the thick screen of leaves, he pulled out his knife and clenched it between his teeth. The moment Akamui passed below Kamolea’s position, the latter lunged at his back, grabbed him by the throat, and they both rolled over on the ground. Quick as a snake, Akamui tried to shake him off, but Kamolea clung to his neck with a powerful chokehold and stabbed his father lightly in the ribs.

At that precise moment, his heart sank. He sensed that something in the conception of his training was very wrong, and he realized that he couldn’t kill anyone, even if his life depended on it.

Akamui was pleased. He hadn’t noticed Kamolea’s inner struggle, and his eyes gleamed with pride and satisfaction. He tapped his son on the cheek and called him a brave boy.

Terrified and deeply ashamed of himself, Kamolea didn’t get a wink of sleep all night, fretting about what a hopeless coward he was. Now, in the lull of the bobbing raft, his thought drifted to Illima.

They met in secret every evening, and the more he got to know her, the more deeply he fell in love. Whatever he did, he always asked himself whether she would approve it, and if she would be proud of him. She certainly would not like a sissy boy, afraid to kill.

He tried to imagine what his life would be like after killing an innocent person and, even worse, tasting his body to inherit his strength. At the mental image of this act, his stomach churned and black bile welled up in his throat. He flung himself at the edge of the raft and heaved, wheezing with a choking cough.

He lay prone for a long time, his eyes closed. The raft bobbed more strongly as the breeze increased in force. Suddenly a storm-bird swooped over his head with a piercing cry. Kamolea jerked up and looked around. The sun had passed its highest point long ago and was now creeping toward the horizon, its light reflecting off the water in a thousand dazzling gleams. The current had carried the raft away and the island was a small dot on the horizon.

How long have I been here? Kamolea thought, horrified. It’ll be dark before I get home. I was supposed to meet Father this afternoon; he’ll go berserk! He quickly hoisted the sail and set off for Maniha Komo.

***

The next day, Kamolea woke up with a headache and a heavy heart. It was still dark and unusually quiet in the hut. The moment he opened his eyes, a shrill voice screamed in his head:

“The day has come, wretch! Get up and face your destiny!”

In a flash, he visualized himself in a bloody scene, clutching the throat of an unknown man and stabbing him in the chest repeatedly. The blood dripped from his knife. He bared his teeth and brought his face, smeared with blood, to the neck of his victim…

Kamolea shook off his terrible vision.

“I never wanted that, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” he muttered and sat up in his hammock. He looked around and realized that he was in Lalago’s place.

Kamolea squinted, trying to remember why he was there, and the scene from the previous evening slowly emerged. He had returned late from the shore and was surprised to see Lalago waiting for him at the entrance of the village. She rushed toward him, took him by the hand, hushed him, and dragged him to her hut.

“You should stay here overnight until your father calms down,” she told him. “I don’t want him to kill you just before your big day tomorrow. He was looking for you all day and you can’t imagine how angry he was.”

 Kamolea sighed.

I hope today he’ll be in a better mood, he thought, looking at Lalago’s empty hammock. His grandma often got up at sunrise to gather herbs. “At dawn, they have the strongest healing effect,” she often said, sometimes mentioning something about magic.

Kamolea perked up his ears, alert. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was someone in the room. In the gloom of the corner near the cold hearth, the shadows of the pottery shelves were taking strange fluent, incessantly changing shapes. The moment they seemed to resolve into a stable form, they would change again into elongated animals or branchy trees, and then back to shelves again… Gradually, they steadied, outlining a glowing human silhouette. Kamolea blinked several times as the hut filled with mild light, and gasped, as a strangely familiar old man with pale skin, clad in red, materialized in front of him. The dense fog of Kamolea’s memory slowly cleared and he remembered where he had seen him.

“Kedia,” he whispered.

Before his eyes swam the gloomy cave, the smell of the sea, the hopelessness after Kalima had clawed his face… and the weird old man, who had appeared then just as he emerged now. He clutched the same black object near his chest and moved his right hand left and right, and up and down. Now that he was up-close, Kamolea could take a better look at his red garment and his bearded, gleaming face, and even catch the man’s odor, which was pleasant and very calming.

The old man’s look was stern in contradiction to his soft voice, which rang in Kamolea’s ears:

            “The time has come, Kamolea. From now on, I will be your master and your protector. I will steer the boat of your destiny through the stormy sea of life until you understand the purpose of your existence. Wisdom and humility are hard to learn, but once you step on the path of knowledge, there is no way back.”

“What?” Kamolea wanted to shout, but his lips remained glued.

            “The true God, the Ultimate Judge of Good and Evil, will no more tolerate the abominations happening on this island,” continued the old man. “He has decided to destroy this place and to annihilate the entire tribe. For thousands of years, He has waited in vain for them to repent, to stop their atrocities, and to become better people. Now, the blood of thousands of innocent men slain by Tipihaos are calling for revenge. Thousands of raped and murdered women wait to be repaid. The days of this island are numbered, my young apprentice.

“However, God is forgiving and forbearing even to monsters like the Tipihaos. There are still good people in this place who do not deserve to die with the other sinners. God saw in you an opportunity to incline this bloodthirsty tribe toward Good, thus saving it from destruction. You must make them change their habits, show them the right path, and teach them wisdom.  Remember, if you fail, their blood will be on you, for an earthquake will sweep away the island, leaving none alive.”

Kamolea stared at the old man. Not a single thought was forming in his head and he only opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water.

            “Today will be your warrior’s proof, but it won’t happen the way you imagine,” the old man continued. His brown eyes shone in the darkness, boring into Kamolea. “You must stand against Akamui and Chief Momo and refuse to leave the island. You shall tell everyone that the True God forbids killing, and the worshipping of trees, and that Kepolo is not a god!”

Impossible! screamed a shrill voice inside Kamolea’s head.

Kamolea heard steps and muffled voices approaching the hut. The old man smiled for the first time.

“Take your first test with spirit and audacity, young Kamolea! Do it like a real man and remember that nothing is impossible when God supports you!”

With these words, the old man disappeared, just when Akamui rushed in, followed by Itaki and Lelando, his two younger sons. Kamolea jumped quickly out of the hammock and greeted them.

“Here he is, hiding behind his granny’s skirt,” said Akamui derisively. “Where were you yesterday? We had to pay our respect to Kepolo, waiting under Rakapi for his revelation about your warrior’s proof.”

“I apologize, Father,” said Kamolea, keeping his gaze on the floor. “I wanted to be alone and prepare mentally for the big trial…”

“I understand,” nodded Akamui. “I hope Kepolo will not be angry with you and will help you in your endeavor.” He cast a glare at his sons, who are snorting and hiccoughing, trying to suppress their giggles. “Are you ready now?”

“I am,” answered Kamolea, his heart pounding.

Akamui took a step forward and handed him a knife in a brand new leather sheath with fringes on the edges. Kamolea’s eyes widened. He slowly pulled the knife out of the sheath—the long blade was of polished flint, very sharp, and slightly curved toward the point. The wooden handle was exquisitely carved in the shape of a parrot’s head.

“Thank you, Father,” Kamolea said, moved.

Akamui patted him on the cheek.

“You are a good boy,” he said. “Let this knife bring you luck and cut many heads as a new decoration for Rakapi. Remember, Son: no one is braver, sharper, and quicker than you are. I am convinced that you will succeed with excellence in your proof and will never bring shame on me.”

            Akamui’s verbal outpouring was so unusual that Kamolea was genuinely pleased.

            “Thank you, Father,” he said again, his heart overwhelmed with gratitude. “I’ll never disgrace you, I promise! You’ll be the proudest father in Kepula Penu; otherwise, I’d rather die!”

“Let’s go,” Akamui said, smiling. “The others are expecting us.”

Kamolea slung the leather strap with his new knife over his shoulder, hung a wooden flask full of water on the opposite side, picked up his spear, and they set off for the beach.

The day was breaking, but it was gloomy outside. The heavy sky and the rising wind portended a storm. The shore was already crowded with people, mainly relatives and friends of the future warriors, along with some idlers who had come to see the event. They stood in small groups and talked agitatedly, sometimes raising their voices to shouts and cheers.

“Kamolea!” called someone to his left. He turned and saw Anuro, Kala, Kalani, and Illima clustered together and waving at him.

“I’ll go see Anuro, Father,” Kamolea told Akamui.

“You’d better hurry up; the others are already waiting,” grunted Akamui and motioned toward six boys who had gathered around the canoes just a few yards away from the water.

“I will,” nodded Kamolea before dashing toward his friends.

“Here he comes, the horror of Kepula Penu,” cried Anuro, googling his eyes as he always did when the girls were around. Kala and Kalani giggled. Illima looked at Kamolea lovingly and smiled.

“Hello everyone,” Kamolea said. “It’s very kind of you to come.”

“Hey, they came to see me, not you,” Anuro shouted.

“It’s not true. I came for you,” said Illima, smiling shyly. She took his hand and pulled him a bit farther away from the others.

“I brought you a present for luck,” she said and handed him a bracelet of pinkish seashells. Her face was radiant and her black eyes shone like brilliant stars.

Today she’s extremely beautiful, Kamolea thought.

Out loud, he said, “Thank you, my love. I’ll put it on my left wrist, closer to my heart.”

“Let me do it.” Illima gilded the pinkish bracelet over his hand, fixing it next to the white gleaming one. “Thus, you’ll have two protectors: your mother’s gift and mine.”

“Come on, Kamolea, we gotta go,” Anuro cried out.

“Good luck, my heart,” said Illima. She squeezed his hand and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

Anuro approached and tapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said.

“I love you, Illima,” Kamolea said, fondling her face. “Wait for my return and I’ll make you the happiest girl in the world.”

“I promise,” she said, smiling, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.

“Come on! Great feats await us!” said Anuro impatiently and tugged him by the arm. The moment Kamolea turned his back on Illima, he felt as if a fireball had hit him in the stomach, and his heart sank with a terrible feeling of foreboding calamity.

Once a coward, always a coward, he thought, desperately trying to get a grip on himself.

They set off toward the group of boys, who had meanwhile increased in number. The future warriors would depart in different directions, accompanied by several men, and everybody would be left on a different island in the Archipelago. The boys were overexcited, keen to start the journey, and to prove themselves. As Anuro and Kamolea neared, the latter caught sight of Lalago in the crowd, who was speaking with two other women.

They joined the others just when a plump boy named Fetu was saying,

“… And if they see you, it won’t be easy...”

            “Oh, come on, it will be child’s play to capture someone who isn’t expecting you,” bragged Tamati, a stout boy almost a head taller than Kamolea and twice as strong. “The real challenge comes after that. How will you bring him to Maniha Komo? How will you steal a canoe without being seen by the lookouts?”

            “Yeah and how will you find the way back, especially if the sky is starless?” Fetu put in.

            “Stop whining like a maiden, Fatty! I feel like taking a shit when I listen to you,” cried Loto. Kamolea looked at him curiously. He hadn’t seen him since the day Loto had been left lifeless beside the altar, smashed to a bloody pulp.

            He’s a tough one, Kamolea thought with admiration. Loto was older than he was, but obviously, his recovery after the beating had not allowed him to accomplish earlier his warrior’s proof.

“What are we waiting for?” Tamati shouted. “Who’s still missing?”

            “Lacki, he’s coming, over there,” said Fetu, waving toward a short and skinny boy who looked a lot younger than the others did. He approached and muttered a torpid greeting. The lack of enthusiasm in his eyes was obvious.

            “Is everybody here?” cried Chief Momo from a distance.

“Yes, Chieftain,” Loto shouted back.

“Listen up!” Momo raised his right hand and waited until the yelling and laughing subsided. Anuro’s facial muscles were jumping nervously; he could hardly suppress his smile. The chieftain was stumpy, fat, and smelly, with a big paunch, bulging eyes, and no neck. He fitted neither with the tribe’s concept of male beauty nor of a warrior in good shape. However, his fierceness and cruelty, combined with his rhetorical skills and an unambiguous sign of Kepolo, had tipped the balance in his favor during the last election.

            The crowd calmed down, and the only sounds were the roar of the wind, the waves’ splashing, and the birds’ piercing cries.

            “People of the Tipihao tribe!” boomed Momo’s voice. “Today is the most important day for these young boys, who are on the verge of becoming brave and strong men. After they bring back our foes and decorate Rakapi with their heads, and after they drink their blood and inherit their strength, the children you see here will become fearless warriors, and their names will ring over Kepula Penu to the horror of anyone who dares to challenge the great Tipihaos! Let’s wish them good luck, and may Almighty Kepolo help them return home safe and sound, covered with glory!”

            The roar of cheers was muffled by the blasting wind, which got up more with every word of the chieftain. The waves rose their foamy heads higher and higher, crashing furiously against the shore. Everybody watched the sea with growing concern.

            “It seems that a storm is brewing, but that won’t stop our brave young fighters,” Momo concluded his speech and turned to the boys, who trembled with anticipation. “Let’s get started! Go to the boats!”

The men chosen to escort the youngsters dragged eight canoes and waded into the water, struggling in the waves to keep the canoes straight. The boys darted off with war cries, splashing into the water, and then jumped in the boats. All but Kamolea.

He stood rooted to the ground, unable to move. His stomach churned. A fireball was burning in his chest, blocking his senses, as his heart was racing faster and faster. He stared at the rough sea and couldn’t believe his eyes.

The old man from this morning was walking on water. Now he was a giant, towering above the waves, ten times taller than a normal human being. Kamolea discerned every detail of his bearded face and pale, delicate skin. His white hair flew back majestically and his red cloak was flapping in the wind. He wore red leather boots, which Kamolea hadn’t noticed until then. In his left hand, he held, as usual, the black rectangular object. A large gleaming cross flashed in his other hand. The old man looked frightful and menacing. He stopped about 30 feet from the shore and raised the cross. The wind ceased and the sea calmed. From the cross, a bolt of lightning flew out toward Kamolea and blinded him, forcing him to shut his eyes. As he opened them again, he had the feeling that the heavens opened and time froze. In that instant, Kamolea felt eternity.

He sensed the presence of an incredible force that controlled the entire universe, and he understood in a fraction of a second that this power was pure energy, conscious and self-aware, alive and breathing, giving life to countless creatures and capable of creating or destroying worlds. He realized that God, whatever He was, was a personification of this majestic force and an enormous wave of awe and humility suffused him. He felt insignificant, helpless like a fly and smaller than a speck of dust.

“Who are you to defy the Power who created you?” boomed a voice. “God raises mountains, makes the Earth tremble and the stars fall. Who are you to disobey Him? Do as you were told! Refuse to kill!”

Kamolea fell on his knees, shaking all over. Then the old man vanished, the sky closed, and the world started spinning again.

The enlightenment lasted only a few seconds, but to Kamolea it was equal to an entire life. His heart was brimming over with joy. What his father or anyone else thought didn’t matter to him anymore. All that mattered was to obey the great force, and he was ready to die for it.

The boys were already in the boats, and all eyes turned at Kamolea. He was still kneeling with a dreamy expression on his face.

“Look, he dropped on his knees and the wind abated,” somebody called out.

“What’s going on, Son? What are you waiting for?” shouted Akamui.

Kamolea rose slowly, as if in a trance, his eyes still wandering off to sea.

“I’m not going anywhere!” he cried and threw aside his spear. “It’s wrong to kill people and I refuse to do it.”

            “What’s this shit?” yelled Momo. “Do not speak like that; you’ll vex our god.”

            “Such a god does not exist,” shouted Kamolea. “I’m going on a great journey, and when I return, I will fell Rakapi. Then you will realize that you, fools, have always worshipped an ordinary tree and deified an imaginary god.”

            “You will die for those words right now, you little shit,” cried Momo. He raised his spear to throw it. Kamolea shut his eyes, bracing himself for the sharp pain.

            It’s over, he thought.

            He heard the crowd let out a collective gasp. Nothing happened. There was no way that the chieftain would miss from such a close distance. Kamolea opened his eyes. Momo lay prone, his fists buried in the sand, his spear next to him. Several men and women, including Akamui and Lalago, leaped toward the motionless body and rolled him over, feverishly trying to bring him around. Lalago bent over and put her ear to his chest.

            “He’s dead,” she said. “His heart does not beat.”

            “You are the one to blame!” shouted Akamui at Kamolea, drawing his knife. “My son or not, I’ll slit your bloody throat and hang your head on Rakapi, as an example for everyone who dares to defame our god!”

            He pounced upon Kamolea. As he took his first step, a great crash of thunder rent the air, and a bolt of lightning struck the ground before his feet. He leaped back, dodging the loose sparks spilling over him. The lightning hissed on the ground like a glowing snake and disappeared in the sand.

Akamui stood rooted for a while, taken aback, hesitating. Finally, he turned to the crowd and shouted:

“Nobody should ignore the fire falling from the sky. You all saw what happened. This boy calmed the sea and killed our chieftain. It’s obvious that the elements defend him. The death of Chief Momo is a bad omen and the departure should be postponed until we understand what is going on. I convoke the Council of Elders right away.”

He pointed at Kamolea and said to the men nearby, “Take him away. Lock him in a cage until the Council decides his fate.”