Hanya Yanagihara - The People in the Trees

“What do you mean?” I asked, and I kept my voice as gentle as possible, so as not to startle him, so as to lull him into continuing.

But of course he was not a pet or a child, and it would take more persuasion or cleverness than merely a quiet voice to overcome his better instincts. “Nothing,” he said, and fell silent, and I was at once aware of the loud, buggy air, and that I had been holding my breath. 24

It was Tallent who spoke next. “I want to tell you a story,” he said, and then paused.

I would grow accustomed to this as well, his way of beginning and then stopping, of great, paragraphs-long speeches that would end, abruptly, in silence, sometimes for minutes, occasionally for hours. But this time his silence was brief, and when he spoke again his voice was strong, and the story that emerged was delivered less as a speech and more as a recitation, as if he were a wandering storyteller whom I had encountered in a dark piney medieval forest, not a humid jungle, and I had given him a coin and a slab of black bread to bewitch me, for a moment to transport me from this world.

“Many years ago, many, many years, before the age of man, there was a great stone, a god, named Ivu’ivu, who ruled alone over a vast kingdom of water. He was very powerful, this god, and his dominion contained everything below the surface of the sea — his was a kingdom of tail-whipping, tooth-bared sharks and gigantic, blind-eyed whales and fleets of fish and fields of swaying sea grasses that brushed against his base like nymphs’ hair.

“But Ivu’ivu was lonely. All around him he saw couplings, beasts that joined and bred and glided by him, trailed by their offspring. Even the loneliest, the most solitary of his subjects — the hermit crabs with their whorled, spotted shells and the creeping, prickly starfish — were surrounded by children. Being a god, Ivu’ivu was not worried about mortality, but he thought he would like someone to be with, with whom he could discuss the burdens and difficulties of being a god and a king, with whom he might give birth to his own race of children. But for this he would need another god, his equal.

“Ivu’ivu had a dear friend, a turtle named Opa’ivu’eke, who was almost as old as Ivu’ivu himself and who, because he could live both below and above water, had traveled far and wide and had many marvelous tales about places Ivu’ivu had never been. He regaled his friend with stories of the air and the land, where there were as many creatures as were underwater but who flew instead of swam — Ivu’ivu had to ask the turtle to explain flight to him many, many times before he was able even to begin understanding what it was — or who walked, or ran, or crept on two or four or a dozen legs.

“One day Opa’ivu’eke was telling Ivu’ivu about his latest journeys, and the god could not help but sigh. ‘What is wrong, my friend?’ asked Opa’ivu’eke.

“ ‘Ah, friend,’ replied Ivu’ivu, ‘I am lonely. All around me I see happiness, companionship. I too would like a companion, some children. But I need another god, and there can be only one ruler of this world.’

“The turtle was silent for a long time. Then he bade his friend goodbye and swam away.

“Some time later the turtle returned, again with wondrous news, but this time even more wondrous than the god could have hoped. On his most recent trip above water, Opa’ivu’eke had talked to another friend, A’aka, the god of the sun, and explained to him Ivu’ivu’s desire. A’aka, it emerged, would like to meet this powerful god of the water about whom he had heard so much. And so a romance began between the god of the water and the god of the sun, with the turtle their messenger. It was he who ferried comments and compliments and questions and chants, spiraling into the cold black depths of the water to deliver A’aka’s words to Ivu’ivu and then, his flippers fanning through the currents — which Ivu’ivu calmed to make his friend’s journey easier — up to the surface, where A’aka would pause in his course in the middle of each day to listen to the news from a world he could never visit.

“Within time, three children were born: the first a boy, named Ivu’ivu, after the god of the sea; the second a girl, named Iva’a’aka — the Daughter of Stone and Sun; and the third a boy, U’ivu, whose name means simply Of Stone. Half of all three children lived below water, like Ivu’ivu, and half of them lived above it, like A’aka. They floated in and were cooled by the watery kingdom of one father and warmed and nourished by the heat of the other. Always they were sustained by their parents’ love and devotion. And so when they too grew up and became lonely, they turned to A’aka, who blessed them with their own children: mankind. And as long as the humans were kind to their parents, A’aka made sure that their crops would always grow, and Ivu’ivu promised that the sea would always be full of fish and that they would always be able to sail his waters, because men, after all, were his descendants as well and therefore his to cherish and protect.

“As for Opa’ivu’eke, he lived a long, long life, long enough to see his friends’ grandchildren and great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren grow and prosper, long enough to give birth to his own children, who bore his name — Stone-backed Animal — and who on land preferred to live atop and in water around the turtle’s favorite child, his godchild, Ivu’ivu. Opa’ivu’eke was not a god, of course, but he was, and is, always honored not only by his two friends but by all his friends’ descendants — for his devotion and selflessness, of course, but also for his noble duties as a messenger. This is why, when a man is lucky enough to find an opa’ivu’eke, he must make a sacrifice to the gods and also eat some of its flesh himself. To do so is to send a message to the gods, a prayer for the one thing that A’aka withheld — with Ivu’ivu’s approval — from his grandchildren: immortality. And maybe one day the gods might answer them.”

Tallent stopped talking and we both sat for a moment without speaking. I am sitting on the child of a god , I thought. Two gods . It was preposterous, and yet I felt, despite myself, a tremor ripple through me.

“That is the first story a young U’ivuan learns,” said Tallent quietly. “It is almost as old as these people are — thousands of years old, and it has never changed. They have no written language — or at least they didn’t until the missionaries — but everyone knows it. This symbol”—he traced a circle on the ground with a stick, and through it a straight vertical line—“means turtle , and you find it on ceremonial stones and dishes from hundreds of years ago, from people who have made an offering of one of Opa’ivu’eke’s children to Ivu’ivu and A’aka, hoping that they will be the one who will be granted the exception, who will finally be allowed to live as a god.”

He was silent again.

“But there is another story now, one that is not old at all, one that has in fact emerged only in the past century or so. For many years the grandchildren of Ivu’ivu and A’aka made their grandparents and parents proud, and why not? The humans were brave and resourceful. They were excellent hunters, superior fishermen. They protected their parents against all invaders and properly respected both of their grandfathers. And although years, more than anyone could recall, had passed without anyone finding one of Opa’ivu’eke’s children to sacrifice, neither god seemed to be offended, and all passed in harmony.