You are the last of us, keep it safe, to pass on to yours, that our clan may live.
He couldnt remember how he ended along the path. The last few miles had been an exhausting blur.
All he knew was that he should have been safe by now.
He was panting.
His heartbeat, a synchronized thunderous pounding, threatening to drown out the sounds around him.
He stopped to catch his breath, leaning against a nearby palm tree.
By now the rush in his ears had subsided. The sweat, streaming down his face.
He paused, and looked about him.
The tide crashing along the shore, had him frowning.
He could have sworn he’d been heading inland since coming off the canoe, yet the waves seemed closer than before.
If not for the pale crescent hanging in the sky, his sight would have been hindered further.
Don’t panic, he told himself, you survived the sea, on land you’re stronger.
He reached for his pouch, for the familiar feel of the small blade he kept.
Paddling across the lagoon, it had been a futile tool, good for filleting small fish, and slicing fruit, now he needed it more than ever.
His hand came up empty.
A moment of haze then memory flooding back, he’d lost it trying to cut his way through that mass of seaweed that had stubbornly stuck to the prow as he’d strained to pull away.
A patch that had appeared out of nowhere. Almost lifelike it had seemed to follow him.
It confused him. Things like this didnt happen.
Especially not here.
His sangai clung to his reed belt however, and he removed it, uncoiling the elastic band.
A few good sized pebbles will do and he knew he had a steady aim.
But there was nothing truly solid beneath his bare feet.
The texture told him he was on sand, and not even the moon could reflect a piece of coral.
At least there’s a path. Though it looked less worn than he remembered.
Where once there should have been a perceptible track, weeds grew over and fallen leaves covered it in patches.
Nothing had seemed right tonight. The others had barely spoken to him, and the brew in clay pots had tasted rancid and foul. A bitter aftertaste lingered, and he spat.
A bird’s shrill call cut through the quiet of the night and he froze.
“I should have brought the paddle” he thought. But then landing on the beach, after what had seemed an eternity, it was the last thing he’d thought of.
The bird called again. A sharp piercing whistle.
He stood.
Despite the keenness of his youth, he couldn’t pick out the direction it came from.
A fluttering overhead caused him to duck.
And as he crouched, felt the hair tingling on his skin as a sudden cold enveloped him.
The wind ceased and the clouds appeared suspended in time.
Even the trees seemed to stand still, not a branch swaying.
Confusion racked him, as with knees suddenly feeling weak, a trickle of urine ran down his leg.
His Nemi had told him as a child in her lap, that safety lay within his ancestors spirits.
Her soft voice and wrinkled features came to him, thoughts drifting back, to the necklace of shell and vine, she gifted him.
“Keep this always” she’d said. “It is precious and given from my people to you”.
Stern, yet kind, she had been his one source of comfort through his parents troubled times.
“Each color, represents something Tubu.” She’d explained
“The shiny white is taken from the mouth of the clam, the red from the shells under the seas, carved and holes made for the thread to pass.”
It was a lecture he’d become familiar with over time, told through his growing years and even when she’d lain withered and blind.
“It is sacred, and you must keep it always, our clan lives only through you, because they seek to see us end.”
He had only nodded then, without severity, mourning her passing before him.
He’d lost that necklace tonight.
How, he couldnt remember.
Whether at the gathering held to honor his passing to manhood, his mad dash across the surf, or in the hut with that young woman, he couldn’t remember.
The one true memory he had of kin. Gone.
A rustle in the bushes jolted his senses. He tensed and tried to focus, but all seemed dark.
Large animals were uncommon in these parts, and a pig would have been tethered and kept fenced. Its smell a far easier telling sign.
But no pungent smell, no grunt or snort.
And the bushes moved again. This time appearing closer…Darker.
His pupils were straining to adjust, as a shadow flitted to his left, and then back.
Suddenly a silhouette loomed, darker against the shadows beside it. Thin, tall, a nose long enough to reach its torso. Eyes larger than his clenched fists.
His already heightened senses intensified with terror, as the shadows moved toward him, first alone, thrn splitting in two then multiplying as they closed in, tendrils diving through the earth, darkness itself advancing and as he fell back, talons gripped his shoulders, while his lips parted to scream.
But there was only quiet.
The gentle breeze through the palms, the waves, crashing along the shore.
A pale crescent hanging in the sky.
On the soft sand, a small necklace lay, oiled and beautifully intricate, symmetrical, with a pearl adorning its centre.
A lithe hand reached down to pick it up.