Of Girls and of Boats
Mahina had always felt that ships were strange things. They loomed so large in the harbor, their flags billowing in the wind. You could see them from almost any point in the city of Ny’Kallumn. Always, they weighed upon her mind. And yet, despite having lived in the little port for all her life, she had never been on one. Or, well, she had stood on the deck of a boat many a time, but it had never felt like truly being on a ship. A ship was not a ship until it left the harbor. Until then it was just a bundle of wood, stuck in place. The point of a ship was to leave its harbor. Soon her daughter, Alani, would be on a ship. She would stand between the sky and the sea as she was taken to a someplace-else.
Her daughter was to be taken away.
Mahina sat at her kitchen table, two plates of food arranged, both growing cold. The sun sank lower in the sky as she waited, dipping below the horizon as the heavens became a tapestry of pinks and blues and golds. Maiden dusk gave way to mother night. And still Mahina did not eat.
Some time after the moon had crested the sky, Mahina’s ears detected the sound of a door opening and of footfalls upon the floor. And so Mahina rose, like some corpse coming back to life. She turned to find the face of her daughter. Alani stood before Mahina, her clothes torn and dirty, scuff-marks upon her shoes and scratches upon her legs. Drops of blood anointed her forehead.
“Alani! You’re home,” said Mahina. Something shook in her voice as she spoke, as though her saying it might cause the moment to shatter.
“Yes. I am,” said Alani. Her voice contained neither affection nor defiance, but Mahina did not care.
“Would you like to eat? I prepared something for you. And— there’s more if you’re hungry.”
“I’m sorry mom, not- not tonight.”
“If you’re certain.” Mahina did not know the words with which to speak to her daughter. “Please, rest well.”
“I will.”
And already her daughter was departing to her room. Mahina had to speak, to make use of her time with her daughter. So few opportunities were left to her. “It doesn’t have to be you, you know.”
But this was the wrong thing for her to say. It had never and would never work.
“Yes. It does have to be me.” Alani smiled at her mother gently, looking more grown woman than little girl. “You raised me well. If I can hold a spear in my hands I have a duty to use it. Mother, I have to do this. You understand, don’t you? What would you think of me if I did not?”
Alani departed to her room, leaving Mahina with two cold plates of food.
Quietly and holding back tears, Mahina cleared them, washed them, and put them away. There had been a time, far too long ago it felt, when Mahina had done this for three plates.
Mahina was not with her daughter as she boarded her ship. No, Alani was to be with her company, with those who were to fight beside her and keep her safe. Still, Mahina went to watch the ship leave. She would not be a mother if she did not.
Mahina looked at the ship, tall and proud, standing mightily upon the water. Alani waved at her, eyes shining, mirroring the stars that smiled overhead. A spear was strapped to her back. Her daughter looked noble in the starlight, but Mahina could still only see her little girl. She wished that she had more time to spend with her daughter, that they could share but one more meal together. Little girls were meant to stay home, safe and with their parents, not to be sent to battle.
But ships are made for taking people away, for spiriting them to a someplace-else. They were not ships while still at port, and daughters were not women until they went away, unto the horizon. And for better, or for worse, that was where her daughter’s destiny lay.
The ship was off and it cut a fine edge through the water, leaving white in its wake. Mahina sat there, on the dock, watching and waiting for she knew-not-what. The ship grew smaller and smaller in her vision, until it was even smaller than Alani had been when she was born. And then the ship vanished out of sight, falling below the horizon into the under-the-earth.
And so Mahina was alone, her tears falling into the sea. She wondered if that was where all the sea had come from, a cup filled with every parent’s heartache.
The sun and moon danced across the sky together, each chasing after the other. And that was how the days passed. And the weeks. And the months.
People said that the war went well, but that is only a thing that people say. The war was going how all wars went, full of dead men and women. Every week was greeted with reports of islands saved and islands razed. Of boats burned and men made sacrifice. Sometimes her people were killed and other times they got to do the killing.
Whenever she sat on the pier and looked out to the horizon, it was a wonder that the sea was still blue and not yet stained scarlet.
Stories were told, of all the islands that were safeguarded from peril, of all the lives saved, of the works of heroes. But all it meant to Mahina was that her daughter still was not home.
A man knocked on Mahina’s door. When she opened it, she saw that he was well-dressed. His clothes were crisp, his hat was sharp, and his shoes were unmarred. He seemed more statue than man. And, held tightly in both of his hands, he clutched a box.
“Is this the residence of Ms. Iona?”
“It is.” There were no other words within her.
The man set the box down and gave her a salute. “I am so sorry ma’am. I fought with your daughter. She was brave and she saved many lives. I would not be here if it weren’t for her. And I thought I should be the one to tell you of her passing. Captain Alani—she was a hero. My home island—it was almost burnt to the ground. So many would have died without her intervention.”
The man said many other things, none of which Mahina heard or understood. They did not matter to her. Then, finally, the man was gone and she was alone.
Mahina took the box to the kitchen table. Only one plate sat on it then.
In the box was all that she would ever have left of her daughter. A broken spear-head, a lock of hair, the necklace Alani had worn since she was a little girl, and a scrap of paper.
Mahina picked it up. Only sixteen words were written.
“I am sorry, mom. I love you. I hope that you can be proud of me.”
