The warmth of the Rama torches, once a symbol of protection against the night, suddenly felt like the heat of a fever.
Every villager stood like The final breath of a drowning sailor. silhouette, their shadows stretching across the white coral grit like long, accusing fingers.
Tako felt a strange, cold vibration in the soles of his feet. It wasn't the earth moving—it was the collective heartbeat of a hundred people holding their breath at once.
Maluma stood at the center, his face suddenly hardened. "So now i want to know: What were you doing at the brothers' location? Did you kill Bako? And who was involved?"
The woman shivered, her eyes tracking the sand—left, right, left—searching for an exit that didn't exist.
—CLAP—
The sound was like a gunshot. "Answer the question!" Maluma's eyes flinched with rage, his teeth bared.
The woman flinched back, the veins on her neck popping out like thick cords.
She squeezed her eyes shut and held her hands out, palms forward. "Alright, alright! I was checking up on the Fijians to see if they were guarded so that we could kill them,... And i wasn't directly involved in Bako's murder. The others were."
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd—a low, humming murmur of shock.
Tako leaned in, his arms crossed so tightly his fingers shivered against his skin.
"There were twenty people involved," she gasped.
—Twenty?!— Tako's stomach did a sick, watery flip.
Maluma's voice wavered, a tiny crack in his iron control. "Name them."
The woman turned her head, her gaze sweeping over the villagers.
Her eyes were wide, reflecting the terrified, pale faces of her neighbors. She looked back at Maluma, meeting his fixed, stone-cold stare.
(Kaitamere. Baiteke. Tion. Arawatau. Beiarieke. Kautuntake. Teniko.)
Tako felt the air leave his lungs. Beside him, Rania's breath hitched—a sharp, wheezing sound of disbelief.
The world began to tilt. The vibrant orange of the fire, the green of the palms, the brown of the thatch, it all bled away.
Everything turned into a flat, metallic grey, as if the island itself had died. The only thing left in the world were the names falling from her lips like heavy stones.
(Taberannang. Eria. Rioti. Katirake. Namoriki. Tinko.)
The last name hit Tako like a shark harpoon, piercing deep into his chest. A metallic, battery-acid taste flooded his mouth. His skin went cold, his blood feeling like ice-water in his veins.
—What is wrong here? Am i going crazy?— His thoughts were slow, thick, like he was trying to run through mud. —Did i just hear that? My mother? A Killer?
In the back of Tako's mind, a memory sparked to life—vibrant, golden, and cruelly warm.
When the sun was still low, painting the world in a soft, honey-colored light.
It was that quiet hour when the dew was still wet on the grass, making the air smell like crushed leaves and salt.
His mother, Teniko, stood before a low-hanging Pandanus tree.
With a bit of effort, she braced her feet against the sandy earth and wedged the stick into the deep grooves of the heavy, segmented fruit.
Little Tako, small enough that the world felt giant, watched as she leaned her weight into it, until the orange segment finally yielded.
—she cared for me since i was a kid. How did she suddenly go this path?—
The pandanus popped free with a juicy, tearing, and she caught it deftly before it could hit the dirt.
Turning to little Tako, she wiped a stray lock of hair from her damp forehead and smiled—a look of pure, unburdened love.
She handed him the segment, and he carefully placed it into the woven basket, his chest swelling with the simple joy.
The golden haze of the memory deepened, shifting from the groves to the heart of the village.
It was the social hour—that late afternoon stretch when the heat of the sun began to lose its teeth and the shadows of the palms grow long and spindly across the sand.
Grown-up Tako sat on a woven mat of sun-dried leaves, his hip pressed against Teniko's side. They were gathered with a few men and women near the Maneaba.
The air was thick with the scent of drying fish and the earthy, sweet aroma of roasting rootstocks.
Teniko's side profile was silhouetted against the setting sun.
Her face was now sharp, defensive. She gestured toward the others with a slow, graceful sweep of her hand, her mouth moving in a gentle rhythm as she shared a bit of village a quiet joke.
—the same woman that helped others, that wouldn't swat a firefly, a hard working person like anyone, just participated in a murder of a high-ranking villager—
She leaned in, whispering something that made the other women erupt into soft clapping and muffled laughter.
Following her lead, Tako let out a bright, bubbly chuckle, his small chest puffing out with pride. He looked at her, catching the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, real lines of joy.
He turned his gaze to the rest of the group, feeling the solid, unbreakable warmth of a community that felt like one giant, beating heart.
—And Tinko... my close friend—
The golden fragments of the past continued to bleed into the gray present, pulling another memory from the depths of the ocean.
The buttery wash of gold during the late afternoon. They had been sitting on elevated wooden stilts.
The air had tasted like salt and wood-resin.
Tinko was there, his best friend's face bright and full of a restless, youthful energy.
With a wide, mischievous grin, Tinko had leaned in and bumped his shoulder hard against Tako's, a mocking, brotherly shove.
—Tinko...— his mind whispered, the word a shivering, broken thing.
Tako's own face got static, and unimpressed.
The past shifted one last time, pulling a memory from the island's interior.
They were walking a narrow, clear path cut through the heart of the groves. The sky above was the bright blue of a healthy morning, but a bruised, sickly wash of pale violet and sulfur-yellow.
Tako and Tinko looked at each other occasionally, their mouth moved, their eyes fixed in debate, their faces set in the serious expressions of young men with differing ideologies.
—We made jokes while you carried a blade?—
Tako shifted the harvesting yoke across his shoulders, the heavy digging stick creaking under the weight of the root crops and baskets of fruit.
The memory deepened, the light was shadowy here.
Tinko remained by a elevated platform. The shadows played across his face, revealing a malicious, playful smile, a look that felt wrong.
—You laughed with me while you planned to kill?—
His words left with no sound, a ghost of a whisper: "Tonight's gonna be revelry."
The memory snapped back into the cold, gray present of the clearing.
The faces of the villagers, the flickering orange of the fires, and the looming shadow of Chief Maluma all lost their sharp edges.
The world felt like it was retreating behind a thick, wet veil.
Suddenly, the world went quiet.
Tako turned. He didn't look at the woman on the ground. He couldn't. He began to walk with a heavy, clumsy rhythm.
He raised his hands, pressing his palms hard against his face, his fingers digging into his skin as if he could physically push the names out of his head.
Behind him, Rania broke from the circle of villagers. Her eyes, wide with her own terror, fixed on his retreating back.
She moved with a quickened, frantic pace, her feet skittering over the white coral until she was right at his shoulder.
She leaned in, her face close to his, her lips moving with urgency. "Tako," she breathed, her voice a desperate anchor. "Tako. Talk to me."
Even her voice was wrong. It reached his ears as a muffled, distorted vibration, stripped of its warmth and clarity.
(Uatabo. Mereiti. Teretia. Kabaniri. Nei Tewe. Tebina. Aritia.)
The woman finished, her chest heaving, leaving the clearing in a silence so deep it felt like it would never end.
Maluma was vibrating with a shock so deep it looked like he might shatter. His jaw was tight, his teeth exposed in a grimace of pure 'why?'. "Why? Just why, please?"
To the side, Tenia's uncrossed arms hung like dead weights, swinging slightly as she gasped for air. The rama light caught the deep, canyon-like wrinkles on her face, turning her into a mask of ancient sorrow.
Each breath was a struggle, a wet whistle of air that seemed to signal the end of the world they knew.
The woman's plea a thin whistle of desperation.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Chief. I told you everything you wanted, please?"
Tenia moved. Her footsteps were silent, a ghostly glide through the dust. She reached out, her fingers, touching Maluma's shoulder.
"Maluma," she whispered, her voice a low hum of caution. "I think we should talk to them and find out who did it. Maluma?"
He didn't move.
Tenia leaned forward, her face entering his peripheral vision, her eyes searching for a glimmer of the man she knew. "Maluma. Whatever you're thinking, don't do it."
Then, Maluma's face slowly tightened, his eyes were of a reef shark that had finally caught the scent of blood in the lagoon.
He spoke with a cold precision that cut through the lit up space.
"End them."