A chitter rose from the group of captives. Then one of the overseers hissed, perhaps a call for them to quieten down. Just in front of Peter, the manisaur’s eyes flashed. The iridescence pattern encircling the eyes flickered between blue, white, and orange as it chittered and burbled quietly, almost inaudibly — it obviously spoke only to him.
‘Wardle Ooo Pit. Wardle Pit Ooo Pit.’
The two thumbed hands plucked black-blue feathers from its breast white from under the tail, and downy red-purple fluff from the underside of its arms. Peter noted there were longer feathers over the upper arms, but not enough to be wing feathers. Then in a blur of subtle hand motions the manisaur twisted and screwed the feathers together like a magician performing a trick. It thrust the resulting tangle of feathers at Peter between finger and one thumb. The other thumb on the hand waggled impatiently. When Peter just shrank back from the strange hand, and its offering, the manisaur chittered quietly and more insistently. It seemed frustrated, there was urgency in its movements. It thrust the feathered thing at Peter’s face and glanced over its shoulder. Peter reached out and took the offering, the present. He marveled again at the strangeness of the being’s two thumbs and how it had moved so rapidly to fashion the feather wrap.
At that the manisaur turned, lifted its tail, and pooped almost in Peter’s face. That was about the last thing he had expected and he froze in confusion. The manisaur finished its toilet, flicked some sand over the poo with its feet, and with one last quiet chitter strode away.
The poo had an acrid ammonia smell. Gross yoghurt poo that stunk like drain cleaner, and not at all like the poo smell he knew. At least the yoghurt-pus-poo had been buried. Peter pulled back into the the shadows of the bush. He peered out.
The manisaur had rejoined the group and was tethered in line again.
One of the overseers stared at where Peter had hidden, its eye patches flickered to a dark brown color so its gaze had a beady staring quality.
Then, without warning, two of the captive manisaurs began to fight over a piece of manta meat that neither had been eating. Soon the slavers pushed and shoved at the captives as a huge ululation of calls and cries erupted from them all.
The guards got amongst them, and used sticks with a short rope on the end. They aimed at the heads and faces of the captives who snapped at the weapons with their mouths, or swatted with their hands.
But soon they settled. A slaver stood tall before them and burst out with chitters and booms — a promise of some dire punishment.
Had the commotion been to distract attention? A way to ensure he would not be discovered? The same captive had bowed its head to the overseer signaling submission, but now it gazed towards him, its hooded eyes flashed a deep blue as it bobbled at him in a way that seemed stern and serious. Peter nodded back and slipped away until he found a new vantage point downwind of the fire.
The group had now packed away all the meat, and the captives had been bullied into the boats where they took up paddles. Overseers sat front and rear, relaxed, except one who manned a steering oar.
Drums beat out a rhythm — but he saw now it was the paddles thumping on the edge of the hull. A sing-song chant, interspersed with booming vocalizations, rose in counterpoint to the paddle drumming. The boats moved off, the paddle strokes in perfect time with the song.
Peter watched until they were well offshore and were about to round the barrier islands. At least he would not have to hide his camp from them if they had journeyed from another island.
Soon it was hard to see the boats against the bright sky and the blur of heat in the distance, so he moved to investigate the barbecue site. Blood had spilt everywhere. Mantas for sure — the fins had been left even as they had taken away most of the other parts. But the remains were nothing like those of a fish. They were hard and boney like a T-Bone steak, or spare ribs. And the meat was red or pink, not like a fish’s. Real manta rays were fish, like sharks, so would have soft white translucent meat… or perhaps pink, like tuna sushi. This meat was similar to chicken, or pork
Peter wrinkled his nose at the smell of dried blood. Already seabirds had gathered to peck at the remains. The weirdness continued when some birds picked food up with the elbow fingers on their wings. The movement hooded their heads with their wings as they brought the food to their mouths to eat.
‘The fire. That’s what I have to get some of.’
The smoldering fire pit had no flames. Peter found a stick white with embers and blew on it. A welcoming glow warmed his face. He blew on it harder and it burst into flame for a moment until it guttered out.
‘Yes!’
He guessed then the best way to carry it would be as pieces of glowing ember that he could keep hot. Carrying a flaming stick would never work — it would always be blown out.
‘But first. I have to eat.’ He wrinkled his nose at the idea of the manta meat and instead retrieved his shirt with the clams. These he cooked on the hot charcoal in the pit. While he waited he waved off a curious seabird. As each clam opened he flicked the meat into his mouth and chewed on the sweet flesh. With some bites there would be the crunch of sand on his teeth. But despite this, he thought it the best meal he had ever eaten.
‘Who would have thought I’d be such a seafood fiend?’
As he ate he watched the birds. Some types had the fingers on what seemed to be their elbows, others might be real birds that he almost recognized from home.
Everything here was twisted a little from what he knew. Perhaps it would be possible to get used to it.
‘But perhaps instead I’m getting used to marveling at the strangeness — that’s not quite the same.’
The feather wrap he had been given was intricate with twists of red-purple feathers, and blue. White down, had been knotted and braided with filaments of red. A little like a feathery wand, about the length of his hand. But not a feather duster — he snorted at the thought. Instead it was more like a large angler’s feathered fish hook tied to make a lure that resembled an insect. But this was larger and more complicated.
‘Wow. Beautiful.’ He had assumed that something tied so fast would lack complexity but the incredible detail made it more alien. The alternating colors, and twisted knotted patterns made it important somehow.
But it would be pointless to think on the feather wrap now. First he had to get back to his camp. With the fire. ‘What to use to carry the charcoal ember?’
He stroked the soft down and the larger feathers again. He took his Maori greenstone necklace from the bag his neck. He held the niho taniwha carving in his hand. Then wrapped a knot of the cord around the feathered talisman together with his sailing spanner. Both now lay next to the bag that held the taniwha carving. He slipped the loop back over his head.
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Whatever the feathered thing was, it must be important for the slave to have risked giving it to him. Though what he was to do with it he had no idea.
High on the shore, amongst the driftwood and broken branches, he found an old seashell. It was the size of his fist, curled up but with holes that pierced the end. Ideal for the embers if he wrapped the shell in coconut leaves to prevent it getting too much air and burning fast. Leaves would act to insulate, and stop it getting too hot to hold.
As he fashioned the shell fire-carrier, and filled it with large embers, he felt happy for the first time. Offshore, a manta slapped the water as it sported in the waves.
Manta. You’re much too friendly and easy to catch.
He stood up and looked over the site one last time. It was then he noticed it. Amongst the bones of the largest manta, lay a white, pearlescent disk of bone or shell covered in drying blood. It was about three hand spans in diameter, rounded in a precise circle. He stooped down to examine it and saw that it was pierced with an intricate pattern of large holes with smaller holes between them. He saw with amazement still smaller holes between them again. It was light. He took it into the water and rubbed the dried blood off. It was so white that he almost thought it glowed.
‘Wow. That’s cool.’
Without the blood it seemed more alive somehow. Was there a blue-white glow from within? Light reflected from inside the holes, but the white of the disk seemed too bright, too blue. It was almost as if there was another fire burning inside. At first he though it a trick of the light as it bounced through the translucent structure. He loved it like a precious sculpture.
He slipped it into the bag he had knotted from his shirt for the clams, then slipped it over his shoulders. The shell of embers he carried in his hand for easy checking so the embers would not cool too much.
With fire he would be able to eat like a civilized person, and even perhaps signal someone, or keep wild animals away. Though he had not seen anything dangerous yet, the discovery of the manisaurs showed him that he could not take anything for granted. Around the corner might be a new wonder out to get him.
All through his walk back to his home beach the manta bounced offshore — as if it played — happy and carefree. He hoped the slaughter on the beach would teach it of the danger from the land and it would stay away from harm..
He too had to be wary now. This blue paradise was a world filled with unknown dangers.
Peter retraced his steps back along the coast. His meal of clams had filled him up, but he was hungry for food that he was used to. His mouth watered when he thought of a bacon burger with fries on the side. Or an apple. The fresh crisp bite of a green Granny Smith… or…
‘Stop it. You have to live with what you can find.’
He wondered again why he was here, or if it was all some cosmic joke.
The day had become overcast, thin clouds stretched across the sky, thicker downwind of Black Spire Peak. The wind had risen, but it was steady, not gusting as it had before the storm. The fronds of the coconut trees rustled without pause, like a demented baby’s rattle. Somehow the sound made the walk even lonelier than his outward exploration. He stepped back into the same footprints he had left before. It was like a test to see if he could remember his path outward, as if perhaps there might be a way home, back to Lyttleton. Anything for a familiar face, even Uncle Jeff.
‘Especially after the alien manisaur things.’
The feather wrap was a mystery. All the time the manisaur had talked and muttered as they had made it. Almost as if casting a spell.
‘Some kind of ritual… or perhaps this is a message?’
If that is what the feather wrap was then there was no way he could understand it. From somewhere in his memory he recalled the sound the manisaur had made over the feather wrap. It had sounded less like the twitter of birds, and more like the jabber of a monkey, or a baby. Had it been trying to say something to him?
‘Wardle Ooo Pit!’ Peter laughed. ‘Quardle Ooo bit. Quardle Oodle Ardle. How did that poem go?’ He remembered a poem taught at school about scolding magpies. “Quardle Oodle Ardle Lay.’ That was not quite right, but whenever he heard magpies in the countryside that’s the sound he remembered.
Soon he had pretty well confused himself trying to remember what sounds the manisaur had made. So much so that Peter had begun to think of the captive manisaur as Quardle. It fitted them so well, though they looked nothing like magpies, the sounds they made were more like those birds than anything.
He pulled up short. All the while he had been stepping in his own footprints as he tramped his way to the home beach and his boat. Now though he found himself at the entrance to a small trail. The footprints he had followed led right to it and then disappeared in the dirt. But Peter had never come this way before.
‘Whose footprints have I been following?’
With intricate care, as his heart hammered and shook his limbs, he stole his way up the trail, into a wide clearing, and back from the beach. There he found a garden with rows of banana trees, papaya, and other fruits he could not recognize. The wind swooshed through the coconut trees and rattled the leaves on the trees all about.
A man stepped into view, turned and regarded him without surprise. A real human.
Peter almost ran away. Shy, with all his anxiety and loneliness built up in his chest, he paused. The strange and dangerous aliens he had encountered had made him determined to remain hidden. Now he felt exposed. He took a step back.
The man was about the same height as Peter, a little smaller perhaps. But he was barrel-chested with strong arms and short bowed legs. His light cream or grey colored clothing was loose, but only covered his torso. His exposed legs and arms were dark brown, either tanned by the sun, or he was naturally dark skinned. Peter imagined that a few weeks here would tan him brown too.
Standing stock still now Peter waited to see what would happen. He was certain he had the speed to outrun the small man. But was he alone? There was no sign of other people, no shouts, and no movement. And who is to say that strangers were always dangers, there were enough ways for him to be hurt or to die without needing people to do so.
Suddenly Peter laughed. It was all too ridiculous. The two had both frozen stock still and had stared at each other for…
‘A while at least,’ Peter said. To break the stalemate Peter smiled and walked towards the man, who nodded his head warily but otherwise did not move. As Peter approached he could see the man was old, with wrinkled eyes. His high forehead ran into thinning black hair. A large nose, like the bow of a boat, was set over a small mouth that, as he came closer, broke into a grin filled with white teeth.
The relief at finally finding another human on the island surged in his chest, and a grin spread wide on his face too.
‘Hi,’ Peter said.
‘Ha,’ replied the man.
‘I’m Peter. Do you know where we are? What this place is? How did you get here? Is there any way to get home? What’s your name?’ Peter had a million questions. He realized that what he had really been looking for today was a way home. This might be a nice place to visit, but he really really didn’t want to be stuck here.
‘Ha,’ replied the man. Then he broke into a rapid twittering mumble.
‘Um… do you speak English?’ Peter said.
‘Na.’
‘Oh great.’ Peter’s hopes dropped. He pointed at his chest. ‘Peter.’
‘Ah.’ The man pointed at his chest. ‘Qhawana…’
‘Hmm,’ Peter frowned. That sounded a lot like the burble the manisaur had made. ‘I’m from Otautahi… Christchurch… in New Zealand. Umm… how?…’
The man launched into a burbling rush of words filled with sounds Peter was sure he had never heard before. It was no language he knew, and he had learned a little Japanese, Maori, and French at school. Well — at least enough to count a little, say hello, thank you, and good bye.
Peter tried some of that now — though he was not sure how much help counting to ten in Maori could be.
The man waved him off… or beckoned him on. The gesture was off-hand and Peter was unsure of his intentions. But the man, turned and drew Peter on after him. They soon came to a stone house thatched with coconut leaves, glass windows, and a door made from some matting material. It was a mixture of ages and styles, but old. Someone had repaired it at one time before it fell again into disrepair. Peter remembered the broken stone walls he had seen. The first hint people had been on the island.
The doorway swung back and out came a manisaur.
Peter’s heart raced. The aura around its eyes flashed red when they caught sight of Peter. A twittering shriek roared from the beaked mouth. Peter’s stomach flipped with dread, and he turned to run. The small man stood in his way — a hand on his chest.
They meant for him to stay...