Chapter 2
The island was anything but flat, and featured several rolling and a few steep but majestic hills. At the point of the island along the shore there stood a curious outcropping of large, stunning black rocks, highlighted by a single tall black boulder that reached higher than, and as stately as a tree. Although it took millions of years of violent geological upheaval, millions of years of ice and snow, and millions of years of sharp, stone-carving winds to mold and create these rocks, the outcropping and boulders appeared to not belong, as if placed in that very position by the hand of a god with great care, much the way a whimsical child might place a beloved toy into a fanciful diorama.
Wequai leaned against the massive rock, her shoulder comforted by the colossal boulder, as she gazed across the sea toward the mainland, feeding her newborn son in the warmth of the morning summer sunshine. She could see smoke rising from the shore where she believed her village stood and only now did she appreciate how massive the battle must have been, as it appeared to her that the entire sky line was ablaze. The canoe that had delivered them to the island had been swept back out to sea by the incoming morning tide, and it bobbed in the waves in front of her, drifting away, taunting her, well out of her reach. She longed for her family, and wondered if any of them had survived, and if she would ever see them again. She longed for the love and wisdom of her husband who was a skilled and brave warrior, and she was confident he must have killed many of the wretched enemy. But most of all, she wanted to show them all the beautiful baby boy she had brought into the world -- the newest member of her proud tribe. Her son had been born in the early hours of the morning, all blue, skinny and messy, and silent, without a scream, near sunrise, behind the immense black rock which now gave her shelter from the cool morning sea breeze.
The great warrior who had saved her life, rowed her across the sea, and carried her up to the shelter of the great rock, was dead. He laid on his face in the matted beach grass by her feet with several arrows sticking straight up from his neck and back, dried blood bathing his ribs. She sat in awe of his strength and courage, and realized the warrior had achieved a level of heroism that Wequai had only heard in her grandmother's honored stories. She remembered nothing of their voyage across the sea that night, fading in and out of consciousness throughout the journey, now arriving at the conclusion that this warrior had been sent by the gods to save her so she could give birth to her son here on this island. Everything had a purpose. The chaos would someday make perfect sense.
As she stared at his stiff, lifeless body, she marveled at the size and tone of the muscles on his shoulders, arms and calves, and the perfection of his smooth, tanned skin. She reached over and stroked his cold shoulder, lovingly, to thank him. He was beautiful, and she believed he must have been a great husband -- for a heathen. She pulled her baby from her breast and held him out to the dead warrior.
"Here, my son, look upon the brave warrior who sacrificed his life so that you could live. Do not forget him, for he was sent by the gods just for you." The baby opened his eyes for the first time, albeit briefly, revealing two pupils big, round and as black as the night sky under which he was born.
"Oh my, little god! Your eyes are so beautiful!" Wequai bubbled despite her dilemma, waves of joy bounding across her face. "We need to give you a name, so I will call you... Manisses! The little god."
Wequai held Manisses with both hands, naked, toward the sky, and bowed her head to thank the spirits for the gift they had bestowed upon her. She looked down at the body of the poor, dead warrior once more and wondered if he, too, had a wife and child. She assumed he did, and shared their sorrow.
"Well, Manisses, I believe his wife to be very beautiful, and that she was blessed with many children. A warrior this strong and powerful must have been a wise leader, too, and very well respected." Wequai paused and looked at him, troubled. "But I wonder what he was running away from, when he jumped in Uncle's canoe? A warrior with this much bravery and honor running through his veins would not run from a great battle. That's why I know he was sent to us by the gods to save you."
Wequai spent the morning pulling up the grasses from around the great rock, making a small bed for the newborn Manisses to lie upon, layering it with soft milkweed fluff. She removed what little clothes the warrior was wearing and swaddled Manisses in them. And in the warrior's beaver-skin belt, she found a knife.
"A gift for you, and for me," she said, tucking the little god into his cradle of fresh island grasses.
But her concern turned from her new child to the local island residents, and she wondered if she was alone. Tribal legend had taught her that both her tribe and people originated on this island, and being so isolated, they were able to grow and improve their culture without complication or fear of aggression. The island was just visible along the horizon from her village on shore, and was believed to be no longer inhabited. The fishermen knew to stay away from the island as it was a sacred and spiritual place -- a place where the gods came to play and rest. She decided it best to seek out the island people and try to tell them what had happened -- that is, if they existed at all.
Every muscle in her body was stiff and sore, and she found it difficult to stand and walk. But Wequai was born with the brawn of a small boy, and her wiry frame was built for climbing. In her youth, she had climbed every tree in her village faster than any of the boys. She pulled herself up on the rocks and began her ascent to the top. The rocks were slippery, smoothed by the island's constant winds and sprinkled at its edges with white sea salt, and although her aching back and legs argued, she climbed with great care, and was able to reach the top.
From the peak, she could see a great distance in all directions, and nearly the whole island. The ocean was calm, its waves small and blue, and the sun was hot on her back. The rocks themselves were already absorbing the heat of the day and warmed the soles of her feet. Wequai held her balance and scanned the horizon. There were signs of life everywhere -- gulls, ducks, plovers and birds of every kind -- even a few white-tailed deer bounded by off in the distance, no doubt once captured and brought to the island by those early ancestors. But there was no sign of recent human habitation. There were no settlements, no smoke fires, no field, no wigwams, and no moored canoes.
Manisses and Wequai were alone on the island.
Wequai stood on top of the great rock for a long time. She looked away toward her home in the distance, across the sea, and at the smoke that filled the skies and mingled overhead with the grey summer clouds. She was overcome with despair and wondered how she would ever get home. As a young girl, she had a beautiful voice and loved to sing, and her grandmother taught her more songs than any of the other girls in the village. Wequai inhaled, and the heavy, humid sea air filled her chest. With her arms raised and palms open, Wequai sang a song to the island that welcomed the morning, one of her father's favorites. And though she sang loud and with beauty, only Manisses, sleeping in his soft nest of grass and milkweed far below, and a perplexed cormorant pulling on a rotting clam, were on hand to enjoy her sweet, honest, soulful performance.
There was an abundance of crabs and lobsters crawling along the beach, so if her exile on this island would be long, Wequai knew she would not starve. She despised the salty, pungent flavor of shellfish, and accepted her fate as a punishment from the gods for all the complaining she did as a child whenever her mother served it at the communal meal. But it wasn't the sustenance of survival that worried Wequai the most, it was the corpse of her gallant hero, lying face down in the grass by the great rocks, already crawling with ants, that would not do well for long in the blazing summer sunshine.
Wequai strolled along the shore and gathered a few crabs for her lunch, and was delighted to see birds' nests nearby so easily accessible where she might happen upon a few eggs, as well. She also collected a few large quahog shells that she could use to chip into tools. But her priority was to first quench her raging appetite, and then to bury her savior.
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sp; The soil in front of the big rock was soft, sandy, and easy to move, but filled with small stones. Wequai cursed aloud each time she dug in and dragged her knuckles across one of the ragged little rocks, and she broke several useful shells. She remained tired and weak, still recovering from her traumatic ordeal, and it took her two days of periodic bouts of digging, napping, and feeding Manisses to create a pit round and deep enough for the warrior's heavy, lifeless body.
Wequai lined the pit with soft needles from the small pitch pine trees that grew near the shore, to provide the warrior a comfortable resting place. Although her enemy, his courageous acts proved him deserving of a burial fit for a sachem -- and she would do her best to provide it. Once the pit was prepared, she attempted to drag him into it, but he was too heavy. She struggled, groaned and cursed as she pulled on his arms and legs, but she was barely able to move him along at all. Sitting, she placed her feet on his hips and gave a great scream, pushing with all her might, and his body, after much effort, rolled over. It was the first time she had seen his face in daylight, now bloated and disfigured, and she was both struck by its beauty and reviled by its misfortune. She paused for awhile to examine it, so she would not forget it, and could describe it to Manisses once he was older.
The body fell into the pit at an awkward angle, arms and legs pointing in all different directions, and it took some time for Wequai to arrange the naked corpse into its appropriate, honorable pose, head facing toward his homeland.
As was custom, a warrior was to be buried with all his most important tools and possessions, but having arrived on the island with merely a breechcloth and a bone knife -- two items that Wequai and Manisses needed to survive -- the warrior would be buried naked and without a weapon. Wequai surmised that since the spirits sent him to save her, they would understand when he arrived in the afterlife unadorned. And if he was embarrassed when he got there, she thought, he was not of her village -- he was, after all, just a savage.
Once arranged in the pit, Wequai laid leaf upon leaf over the body, leafs she had painstakingly picked herself from the low growing red and green shrubs, chanting a song throughout the private ceremony. In her village, she carried no special title or responsibility, but had attended many burial ceremonies and could recreate most of it from memory. She did the best she could, improvised a bit, and sang her warrior many enchanting songs, wishing him a safe journey to the afterlife. When the burial ritual was complete, and all the soil was returned to the hole, she sat against the great rock and brought little Manisses back to her breast. Wequai sang to him and wept as she watched the sun set beyond the orange horizon, over her old village, blanketing them in a friendless darkness.