Ellen Datlow - The Beastly Bride

The favor of the waters applied to Kokinja in other ways. The fish themselves always seemed to know when she grew hungry, for then schools of salmon or mackerel would materialize out of the depths to accompany her, and she would express proper gratitude and devour one or another as she swam, as a shark would do. When she tired, she either curled up in a slow-rocking swell and slept, like a seal, or clung to the first sea turtle she encountered and drowsed peacefully on its shell — the leatherbacks were the most comfortable — while it courteously paddled along on the surface, so that she could breathe. Should she arrive at an island, she would haul out on the beach — again, like a seal — and sleep fully for a day; then bathe as she might, and be on her way once more.

Only a storm could overtake her, and those did frighten her at first, striking from the east or the north to tear fiercely at the sea. Not being a fish herself, she could not stay below the vast waves that played with her, Shark God’s daughter or no, tossing her back and forth as an orca will toss its prey, then suddenly dropping out from under her, so that she floundered in their hollows, choking and gasping desperately, aware as she so rarely was of her own human weakness and fragility. But she was determined that she would not die without letting her father know what she thought of him; and by and by she learned to laugh at the lightning overhead, even when it struck the water, as though something knew she was near and alone. She would laugh, and she would call out, not caring that her voice was lost in wind and thunder, “Missed me again — so sorry, you missed me again!” For if she was the Shark God’s daughter, who could swim the sea, she was Mirali’s stubborn little girl too.

Keawe, Mirali’s son, was of a different nature from his sister. While he shared her anger at the Shark God’s neglect, he simply decided to go on living as though he had no father, which was, after all, what he had always believed. And while he feared for Kokinja in the deep sea, and sometimes yearned to follow her, he was even more concerned about their mother. Like most grown children, he believed, despite the evidence of his eyes, that Mirali would dwindle away, starve, pine and die should both he and Kokinja be gone. Therefore he stayed at home and apprenticed himself to Uhila, the master builder of outrigger canoes, telling his mother that he would build the finest boat ever made, and in it he would one day bring Kokinja home. Mirali smiled gently and said nothing.

Uhila was known as a hard, impatient master, but Keawe studied well and swiftly learned everything the old man could teach him, which was not merely about the choosing of woods, nor about the weaving of all manner of sails and ropes, nor about the designing of different boats for different uses; nor how to warp the bamboo float, the ama , just so, and bind the long spars, the iaka , so that the connection to the hull would hold even in the worst storms. Uhila taught him, more importantly, the understanding of wood, and of water, and of the ancient relationship between them: half alliance, half war. At the end of Keawe’s apprenticeship, gruff Uhila blessed him and gave him his own set of tools, which he had never done before in the memory of even the oldest villagers.

But he said also to the boy, “You do not love the boats as I do, for their own sake, for the joy of the making. I could tell that the first day you came to me. You are bound by a purpose — you need a certain boat, and in order to achieve it you needed to achieve every other boat. Tell me, have I spoken truly?”

Then Keawe bowed his head and answered, “I never meant to deceive you, wise Uhila. But my sister is far away, gone farther than an ordinary sailing canoe could find her, and it was on me to build the one boat that could bring her back. For that I needed all your knowledge, and all your wisdom. Forgive me if I have done wrong.”

But Uhila looked out at the lagoon, where a new sailing canoe, more beautiful and splendid than any other in the harbor danced like a butterfly at anchor, and he said, “It is too big for any one person to paddle, too big to sail. What will you do for a crew?”

“He will have a crew,” a calm voice answered. Both men turned to see Mirali smiling at them. She said to Keawe, “You will not want anyone else. You know that.”

And Keawe did know, which was why he had never considered setting out with a crew at all. So he said only, “There is a comfortable seat near the bow for you, and you will be our lookout as you paddle. But I must sit in the rear and take charge of the tiller and the sails.”

“For now,” replied Mirali gravely, and she winked just a little at Uhila, who was deeply shocked by the notion of a woman steering any boat at all, let alone winking at him.

So Keawe and his mother went searching for Kokinja, and thus — though neither of them spoke of it — for the Shark God. They were, as they had been from Keawe’s birth, pleasant company for one another. Keawe often sang the songs Mirali had taught him and his sister as children, and she herself would in turn tell old tales from older times, when all the gods were young, and all was possible. At other times, with a following sea and the handsome yellow sail up, they gave the canoe its head and sat in perfectly companionable silence, thinking thoughts that neither of them ever asked about. When they were hungry, Keawe plunged into the sea and returned swiftly with as much fish as they could eat; when it rained, although they had brought more water than food with them, still they caught the rain in the sail, since one can never have too much fresh water at sea. They slept by turns, warmly, guiding themselves by the stars and the turning of the earth, in the manner of birds, though their only real concern was to keep on straight toward the sunset, as Kokinja had done.

At times, watching his mother regard a couple of flying fish barely missing the sail, or turn her head to laugh at the dolphins accompanying the boat, with her still-black hair blowing across her cheek, Keawe would think, god or no god, my father was a fool . But unlike Kokinja, he thought it in pity more than anger. And if a shark should escort them for a little, cruising lazily along with the boat, he would joke with it in his mind— Are you my aunt? Are you my cousin? — for he had always had more humor than his sister. Once, when a great blue mako traveled with them for a full day, dawn to dark, now and then circling or sounding, but always near, rolling one black eye back to study them, he whispered, “Father? Is it you?” But it was only once, and the mako vanished at sunset anyway.

On her journey Kokinja met no one who could — or would — tell her where the Shark God might be found. She asked every shark she came upon, sensibly enough; but sharks are a close-mouthed lot, and not one hammerhead, not one whitetip, not one mako or tiger or reef shark ever offered her so much as a hint as to her father’s whereabouts. Manta rays and sawfishes were more forthcoming, but mantas, while beautiful, are extremely stupid, and taking a sawfish’s advice is always risky: ugly as they know themselves to be, they will say anything to appear wise. As for cod, they travel in great schools and shoals, and think as one, so that to ask a single cod a question is to receive an answer — right or wrong — from a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand. Kokinja found this unnerving.

So she swam on, day after day: a little weary, a little lonely, a good deal older, but as determined as ever not to turn back without confronting the Shark God and demanding the truth of him. Who are you, that my mother should have accepted you under such terms as you offered? How could you yourself have endured to see her — to see us, your children — only once in every year? Is that a god’s idea of love?