The menyoro cradled the heartbeat of the village in his hand. He was their leader, their healer, the only man on the island who could settle disputes or treat the sick, and this made him very powerful. The menyoro did not marry. The people were his children.
He was not a loving father.
When he arrived at Lalani’s house just before she did, she considered it both fortunate and unfortunate.
Fortunate, because no one paid much attention when she walked through the door.
Unfortunate, because she knew right away why he was there.
“Exhausting, going from home to home,” the menyoro was saying. He stood between Drum and Kul, looking down at Lalani’s mother, who lay on the hard floor with a sheen of sweat across her face. They barely glanced at Lalani. “I hope this isn’t the start of another outbreak.” He had a clipped way of speaking that distinguished him from the other Sanlagitans. Lalani wondered where he’d learned it. “What would become of you all if I got sick myself, eh? Especially since I still haven’t selected my successor.”
“There’s no need,” Drum said. “You’re young yet, and healthy.”
The fact that Drum treated him with respect was testament to the power of the menyoro. Every man in the village wanted to be his successor, but he’d dragged his feet in choosing one.
“I can see already that she is affected by it,” said the menyoro. He tilted his head left, right, then left again. “No swelling, but her skin is warm and her cheeks flushed.”
Lalani stood behind the men without saying a word. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, but she was desperate to go to her mother.
“I heard that some have survived it,” said Kul.
“She won’t,” the menyoro said. “Only the strong ones survive.”
The way he said it—so matter-of-fact, as if he were talking about a useless fish or insect—sparked anger in Lalani’s chest. She was tired and her mind was muddled. Her thumb throbbed where Ellseth’s arrowhead had sliced it. She’d spent hours wandering the mountain, and she was thirsty and hungry and weary. Perhaps that’s why her anger lit so quickly and burned like fire.
“My mother is strong,” Lalani said, before she could stop herself.
The menyoro squinted at her, then raised his eyebrows at Drum.
“Pay no attention to her,” said Drum. His thumb tapped, tapped, tapped against his leg. “She’s just the daughter.”
Lalani imagined herself kicking Drum in the knee. Kul, too. If she were like Ziva, maybe she would. Or maybe she’d just take her mother and hide away on the ship that was set to sail the next morning. Cade’s brother Esdel Malay was the captain this time, and Esdel seemed like a reasonable man. The Malays were a good family. Kind, and strong.
Just like her father had been.
Her father, who had never returned.
“How long does my wife have?” Drum asked.
The menyoro shrugged. “It’s hard to tell with these things. Weeks, I’d say. Some last longer than others. It’s like our Sanlagitan fish—one may spoil right away; another may be good to eat for days to come.”
Lalani inhaled deeply.
They had compared her mother to a fish.
Lalani’s mother fell asleep on her back. Sweat snaked down her forehead. Heat radiated from her skin so feverishly that it warmed Lalani’s skin as she nestled close. The men snored across the room. But Lalani could not sleep.
“If you were a fish, you would be mighty,” Lalani whispered. “You would survive forever because no one would see you coming.”
Lalani rested her temple on her mother’s shoulder. At least she’s not awake and in pain, Lalani thought, though she desperately wanted to hear her mother’s voice. She wanted to hear her say it would be okay. She wanted to ask questions about all those mothers and their stories.
Instead, she only heard the raspy whistles of her mother’s labored breathing.
“The fishermen would think you were just an average fish, so they would try to catch something bigger or brighter. But if they were to catch you, they would find out how strong you were,” Lalani continued. “They would try to cut you open, but you would bite their hands off and go right back into the water.”
She paused. She wanted to tell her mother a story. Something to lift her spirits, if only as she slept. The one about the binty—something to remind her of her own mother and times long ago, when she was just a girl—but she’d never had a chance to ask Mora Pasa about it.
The only story she could think of was the one she had just lived. My-Shek. Ellseth. The mountain. The beast. A prick of her thumb, the promise of rain, a small bit of magic. If her mother knew such things could happen, she might believe that anything was possible, including her own survival.
“Mama . . .” Lalani began. She’s asleep, she thought. What could it hurt? “I want to tell you something.”
Her mother’s breath rattled.
Her fever burned.
Lalani closed her eyes. The words sat on her tongue, every one of them, every detail, even the breeze from the old tree. But she had made a promise. She had given her word. She swallowed the story away and, without a taller tale to tell, she soon fell asleep.