Chapter 3
The islands of Leihani were made of rich, hardened magma. Luaahi was the largest, though it consisted only of small volcanoes, ash, and inhospitable rock. The four smaller islands—a dappled array of sand, earth, and trees—pointed south, hugging Luaahi like the toes of a dog”s paw.
The second largest island was the one most people referred to when they spoke of Leihani. It was a distinction the island children learned early: the islands of Leihani were where they lived, butLeihaniwas home.
Drenched in thick palm forests and white cliffs, Leihani was a lush habitat of tropical vegetation, jeweled birds, warm-bellied geckos, and a plethora of flying insects. The island market was small, though the exports were abundant.
Leihani caught and sold more fish than any other port in Calder.
Not that I would know from personal experience. I’d never seen another port. In fact, I’d never left the boundaries of the islands.
My version of Calder City existed in my imagination, built by the stories I’d heard in my youth from other island children, every one of whom had constructed their own City of Towers from golden sand. Even me, though I’d moved on to other hobbies well before the rest of my peers.
Those castles had been my earliest lesson on where I fit within the island, whether or not I understood at the time. I’d come back to find mine flooded and soggy, the towers collapsed and the parapets flattened, while the others’ stood glittering in the sun.
So, I stopped. It only takes a few destroyed creations to accept you aren’t meant to dream or build castles.
I suppose that was the first time I”d tasted poison. But I”d felt it on my tongue many times since.
Three days passed under the full moon.
I assumed the man had left the island. I hadn’t seen him since my father rowed him to the docks, and although I’d been curious enough to ask if he’d found a ship home, my pride obstructed the question from venturing outside my lips.
A little after dawn on the third night of Mihauna, I sat on my knees, nearing the end of my chores. Like all the other women in their gardens, I kept a quiet watch on the moon’s trajectory as the first few rays of the morning light crept over the water. One by one, they paused to witness the sun peek out over the horizon, Mihauna still high above them. Good luck followed when the full moon shared the sky with Makua Ahi, the father sun. Tired and sore, dirt coating their arms, the island women smiled across the fields at each other before returning to their labors.
None of them smiled at me.
I’d convinced myself I didn’t care. I was used to being ignored. More than ignored—avoided. I even preferred it at times. The island women gossiped more than the green finches that argued in the forest trees.
And they were likely less intelligent than the birds.
My toes pushed into the soil, earth lining the prints of my skin and embedding under my nails. I rolled the tightness out of my neck, then froze as I recognized someone on the opposite side of my eggplants. The Calderian I’d met three days earlier was busy following Kimo, an islander I’d grown up with.
The Calderian’s gaze swept the fields with curiosity, taking in the crops, the man-made swamps, the little houses, and the women of the island, who were beginning to stand and stretch, chasing the ache in their muscles away. His eyes caught mine and his feet slowed.
He stared.
Leaning back on my heels, I dusted my legs, gathering myself to my feet. Though the voice in my head cautioned against it, I couldn’t help but glance at my neighbors to see who else might be watching.
There was always someone.
The raw, angry color of his skin had faded somewhat, but he looked worse than he had three days ago. Blisters covered every visible inch of his body, other than the white strip along his forehead, as though rain had landed and remained in perfect droplets on his skin rather than breaking on impact. Stark veins zig-zagged across his cheeks, heavy freckles connected by scarlet ink. The edges of his lips peeled in fine, white scales, a crescent-shaped cut still deep in the lower corner of his mouth.
I hadn’t expected to see him again, though I’d be lying if I said some small part of me wasn’t happy to find him on his feet, walking around the island on strong legs and a straight back.
Just not here, staring at me like a mindless dolt under the watch of chatty island birds.
I shot a glance at my door flap across the opposite side of the garden.
Safety.
“Hello again,” I said stiffly, realizing I didn’t remember his name.
Kimo took a step towards him, avoiding my gaze like I was a disease he might catch by looking at me. “Kye,” he said, inclining his head to the side. “This way.”
That’s right. Kye.
Toss that one into the memory bank of I really don’t care; just get out of my Mihauna-damned garden.
The man’s brow furrowed. He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t think of what. The poor fool. The sea must have stolen his brain as well as his shoes.
I risked another glance at the surrounding faces in the crop lines.
The fields had gone quiet. No one within eyesight moved. My skin pimpled with the eerie weight of their stares, and I let my gaze flicker from one pair of eyes to the next, glowering until they looked away.
“Kye,” Kimo said again, crossing my eggplants to reach for the man. Kye continued to study me in silence, as if I were a dream he’d woken up from and couldn’t quite remember.
I crossed my arms, watching Kimo come to the idiot’s rescue. Kye was older than I’d thought, now that he wasn”t horizontal in a rowboat. The breadth of his shoulders wider; developed muscles hinting under his white shirt. His golden eyes, like warm honey, seemed alert and sharp as they swept across my face.
Kimo lurched toward the man’s arm. “It’s not safe for sailors here.” He dared a sideways glance at me.
Kye turned toward the island man, brows furrowed as if hearing him for the first time.
Well, this was fun.
As riveting as it was to stand here while some hollow-brained Calderian gawked at me, I had other things to do. I swiveled, crouching to pack my rake and trowel.
“I’m not a sailor,” came Kye’s voice behind me.
Their feet rustled through nearby grass as they resumed their walk. “It’s not safe for anyone who’s not an islander. That’s the witch’s garden.”
My teeth clenched as I heard Kimo’s words.
I waited for their steps to fade. Across the fields, a sea of wide eyes stared, and I glared back at them. One by one, their faces dropped as they hid in their gardens.
Hate. Simmering, soothing hate worked itself to a boil inside me.
It was like poisoned sugarcane. I knew it could only hurt me once swallowed. Could only grow and fester. Yet the taste was too sweet, too relieving to not indulge. There was no other option, when I found my garden smashed or my herbs missing, than to pluck a poisoned cane from the roots of hate and bite into its sweet nectar, letting it stir and bubble in my belly, letting myself sink into its embrace.
I knew what they were all thinking. I knew they were waiting for me to walk down to the water to wash so that they could turn to each other and whisper about the tall outsider who had walked through the market and island houses to find himself, of all places, staring at the witch in her garden.
I knew that somewhere behind my back, the Calderian continued to stare at me while they flocked around him and warned him to keep his distance.
I knew he would only hear the worst, because there was nothing good to tell. Not about me. Not from the islanders’ mouths.
I knew it, and it churned within me, toxic in my veins.