Outcasts of Gideon

Prologue

Ariki gazed at the sky, his face bathed in the warmth of Mahana. Atua made this possible. The boats would be heavy with fish for the feast. This too was by the grace of Atua. The surf was high, a challenge for the boats, but Atua would guide them as always. As Mahana prepared to rest, Ariki's people returned to praise Atua, a gathering of all the tribe. He watched this from the sacred place in the sea.

From here he could witness their host standing watch over the beach. They were silent sentinels ensuring Atua's will was done. These were the statues his father had built, and his father before him. These were monuments to the many forms of Atua, the shapes and stances of their provider. His people would build many more. They would know the wonders of Atua that he knew, though the sacred stone had been lost. He dove again in the sacred place seeking it.

He was Ariki, as his father had been. And his father's father before him. Many came before them, carrying the burden of Ariki. It was a burden he welcomed, for he was strong with the blood of his father. And though the sacred stone was lost, he knew well the words of Atua. He was now the only one who knew.

The sacred stone didn't make him Ariki. It was the way for him to listen to Atua. It was the way for him to know the words. They were words of great power, for they shook him each time he listened, each time he heard. They were words meant only for him, only for Ariki. As his arms reached again to hear those words, his hand grasped only sand at the bottom of the sea.

There was a time when he wondered where the sacred stone had come from. His father believed it led his people across the sea. He knew of the people left behind, and they were good, so he believed as his father had. Atua told him nothing more.

The sacred stone wasn't like any other he'd seen. It was smooth and firm like the head of a well used toki, but no stone he knew glistened as it did in the light of Mahana. And no stone felt as cold. He had often left it bathed in Mahana's light, only to find it welcome his touch. He yearned to feel that coolness again.

If only he hadn't taken it to sea. This must have angered Atua. His father had often warned him not to remove it from the island. Yet he felt sure of himself. He was certain he could protect it.

There had been no signs at first. The party paddled to where Atua guided them. Here the fish were plenty. The water was as calm as he remembered it being. The sky as blue. He could still see it clearly, the light of Mahana in points across the swelling sea. He wondered if he had ever seen a day more beautiful, a sky more clear.

It was well into the day. The nets were cast again. Though the sea had begun to swell, he saw no sign from Atua. The waves rose and fell beneath them, higher each time. He had grown accustomed to them, forgetting about the stone he carried. The rising water threatened them without his notice. His people pulled in the nets, and he was eager to secure them. Whitecaps lifted the boats but he did not take their warning. Nor did he taste the salt in the air.

Finally, the boat was tossed, the crest of a wave sending all aboard toward Te Kainga. He fell into the sea, the stone leaving its pouch, tumbling beyond his grasp. That was the last time he'd heard the words. That was the last time he'd stood in the presence of Atua. He felt anger and sorrow for his mistake.

After the boat was righted, he searched for the stone. The men of his tribe were long of breath, and the sea was not deep where they had tumbled. He was sure he would find it. He did not.

None of his people knew of the lost stone. None of them knew that it rested at the bottom of the sea. It was a secret he dared not share. They were not as strong as he. They did not walk with Atua. They would not have the patience he had, the patience of blood.

From that day forward he searched. As Mahana rose, he took a boat alone to the sacred place, the place where the stone lay. He dove to the bottom of the sea, his eyes and hands searching. Each time he reached for it, he found something else, or nothing at all. Day after day he returned, hour after hour he dove. Night after night he told his people of the words. Atua had named that a sacred place. They knew nothing more. They needed nothing more. They would leave him to commune with their protector as they searched the sea for the day's meal.

Ava'e came and went as well, her white face rising and falling from the sky. He didn't count the number of times she came, for he knew that he had searched too long already. His people would look to him to assure them that Atua still shined upon them. He shared the word each time, as well as he remembered it. Each passing of Ava'e made those words more distant.

Again he fell to the bottom and searched, his hands now familiar with each grain of sand. His eyes were aware of every shadow, each shifting plant. With each dive, the patience of blood neared its end.

He was beginning to forget Atua. Not the essence, but the being. The shapes that danced in the darkness, they had begun to fade with each passing of Ava'e over the empty sea. Their words had become little more than faint whispers in him. He was losing touch with Atua, and his people had begun to doubt him.

Only the monuments where there, stone, silent, ever watchful. They were what he knew of Atua. They presented what he had seen, what his father had seen, what his father's father had seen. These were the heads atop bodies as wide and deep. They spoke the words now captured as those of his people: Atua, Ava'e, Rahi. Some Atua wore the headdress, some did not. Some shone brighter than others. Some were shapes emerging and falling and circling within themselves.

One evening, the elders came to Ariki as he approached the ahu. "You tell us that Atua still shines upon us. Why then do the trees no longer bear fruit? Why are the nets not full each day? Why do you remain alone in the sacred place in the sea?"

"I have seen Atua. Many times I have seen. Yet mysteries remain, even for me." It was a response he had learned from his father.

He had no answers, even before the sacred stone sought its resting place at the bottom of the sea. He was Ariki, as his father had been. And his father's father before him. Each in their turn had an audience with Atua. His would be the last audience. This day he left the elders on the beach, swimming to the sacred place as the light of Mahana rose from the horizon. He dove again, this time to remain with the sacred stone.