Island's End

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

ALSO BY

Padma Venkatraman

 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS·A division of Penguin Young Readers Group.

Published by The Penguin Group.

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Copyright © 2011 by Padma Venkatraman.

eISBN : 978-1-101-51762-8

First and foremost, heartfelt gratitude to my brother Raghu, who provided resources on shamanic healing and strengthened Uido’s spiritual journey. Second, my thanks to Thotakar, who showed me long ago that wisdom can exist without formal education.

Several people helped make my time on the Andaman Islands meaningful: John, Paleva, Uncle Pav and the other Karens at the ANET research base; Khan Sahib, Satish, Rom, Harry and others from croc bank who shared their knowledge; Luk, Nikhil and Samir, who remain friends. Macall and Anthony conducted medical research for me; Mark and Michael confirmed my back-of-the-envelope oceanographic calculations; Leland and the Chapins sent journal articles about indigenous people. An early draft of this novel took me to the Highlights Foundation’s workshop at Chautauqua, where I found my writing family: Andy, Carolyn, Donna Jo, Eileen, Floyd, Jerry, Jo, Joelle, Kim, Lou, Marileta, Randy, Sneed, Stephen and others whose encouragement I treasure.

In writing this novel, I had the honor to work both with Nancy Paulsen, who guided me to the island’s end, and with John Rudolph as my journey began. Thanks also to everyone else at Penguin, including but not limited to Nicole, Tim, Shauna, Susan and the rest of the editorial team at Putnam; Courtney, Eileen, Emily, Jen, Karin, Kim, Kristin, Leslie, Scottie; my agent, Barbara Markowitz; the two Ambujams; and ASTAL, the Boston Authors Club, colleagues, family, friends, librarians, neighbors, readers, teachers and bookstore personnel—too many to name here—for their support.

M
y dream begins like all the others I have had about the spirits. I am at the beach on our island. A warm breeze carrying the scent of vanilla flowers caresses my bare skin. Clouds blow like white petals across a blue sky and I hear a beautiful voice singing.

Then the song fades and a woman appears near the shore’s edge. She has a round face, soft arms and large thighs. Wondering who she is, I walk toward her. As I come closer, four more limbs grow out of her sides and her body stretches until she becomes gigantic.

An instant later, she floats up above the earth and turns into a dazzling spider. Her eight legs spread out across the sky. Gazing up, I realize she is Biliku-waye, the most powerful of the spirits, who holds the sun and moon and stars in her web each night.

“Go to the beach at once, Uido,” she commands. Her voice is beautiful and terrifying.

Suddenly my dream ends and I awake.

Even after I open my eyes, the echo of Biliku-waye’s voice is loud inside my head. The sound makes my heart thrash like the wings of a bird trying to fly for the first time. Although I have dreamed of the spirits before, none of them has asked anything of me until now. I sit up and hug my knees, trying to understand why Biliku-waye, the strongest of them all, chose to talk to me—a girl born just fifteen dry seasons ago.

The first finger of sunlight has not yet poked through our thatched roof and my body shivers with awe in the cool darkness. I want to rush to the beach. But that would wake my sleeping family, and I keep my dreams of spirits secret from everyone except my best friend, Danna. I am scared my tribe would find me strange if they knew of my wanderings in the Otherworld. So I wait until I stop trembling and then slowly roll up my reed mat and tiptoe out of our hut. Near the entrance stands the bamboo digging stick that my little brother, Tawai, carved for me. Carrying a stick always makes me feel safer. Trying hard to remain noiseless, I stoop to pick it up, but my grass skirt rustles as I bend.

Outside, a gray mist rises from the ground like a fallen cloud. Our village is quiet, except for the whirr of a bat’s wings as it flies into the surrounding jungle.

A whisper breaks the stillness. “Where are you going, Uido?”

I jump like a startled cricket. Tawai stares up at me, his eyes shining with curiosity. Looking at my little brother is like seeing my reflection in a pool, although he is still a child who has lived through just ten dry seasons. His face is as thin and dark as mine, his curls as black and thick. We are both as skinny as twigs, although Mimi feeds us her share of fatty meat whenever she can.

“Why are you up so early?” I demand.

“You woke me when you picked up your stick,” Tawai says.

“You hear well.” I pull gently at his earlobe with a teasing hand.

“Where are you going?” Tawai repeats.

“The beach.”

“Can I come along?” he asks. For a moment I wonder if I should go alone but I hate refusing him, especially when he sounds so eager.

I nod and Tawai grins, looking as delighted as a monkey biting into a persimmon. He points at the mist. “The skink spirit must have had a big fire last night. Look how much smoke he has blown down from the sky!”

It does not matter that we cannot see very far ahead. The path from our village to the beach where we launch our fishing boats runs east through a short stretch of jungle. My little brother and I have walked it so often that we could find our way there even on a moonless night. Tawai’s bow and arrows bounce with every step he takes, and his bone necklace rattles softly. But I tug nervously at my own
chauga-ta
and pray that the ancestors whose bones I wear will help me do whatever Biliku-waye wants.

Soon, the moist undergrowth of the jungle floor gives way to sand that prickles beneath my feet. Tawai almost leaps out of the cover of the trees, but I pull him back.

“Wait.” My belly clenches like a fist.

“Why?”

“I—I—something feels different.” Biliku-waye’s command did not sound like a warning, yet my spirit is uneasy. I sense a change in breeze, as if bad weather is approaching.

“Let go!” Tawai tries to wriggle free.

Still I grip his bony shoulder. The mist is lifting, and staring up the beach to our left, I see nothing but white sand curving into blue water like a crescent moon. To our right, the beach is empty, except for a few crabs scuttling between our canoes and coconut trees. Everything looks the way it always does. As I gaze at the waves twisting along the shore, I feel foolish about my caution. We, the En-ge, are the only people on this island—there is no reason to fear danger.