Wu Ming-Yi - The Man with the Compound Eyes

Atile’i woke to find that he was still floating at sea. He seemed to remember a dream, in which he had almost made it onto an island. On the edge of this island stood a group of youths with sad eyes, fins growing where arms should have been, and blotchy bodies, as if they had spent their whole lives rolling around on a reef. When Atile’i’s talawaka was upon them, a gray-haired youth addressed him, saying, “A little bluefin tuna told us just the other day that you would arrive and join our tribe.” The other youths started singing a mournful song, as if a wave of melancholy had just swept in. It was a song the islanders often sang when they went to sea, and Atile’i could not help singing along.

If the ocean waves come on ,

We’ll block them with our song

But if a storm begins to blow

Alas, fair maiden, you must know

That into tuna, we might grow

That into tuna, we might grow

Their youthful voices were like stars consoling the darkness, like mournful raindrops showering the sea. Then a one-eyed youth said, “Listen, his voice is different from ours. It’s different, like he’ll be beached on an island of his own.” At this a wave hit, Atile’i lost his balance and out of dreamland fell.

After coming to his senses, Atile’i found he really was beached on an island. Apparently boundless, the island was made not of mud but of a multihued mishmash of strange stuff, and there was a weird smell hanging in the air. The sun was now out. The waves had taken all Atile’i’s garments and ornaments, leaving him almost naked, but what bothered him most was the loss of the bottle of kiki’a wine Rasula had given him. The thought of Rasula’s kiki’a wine made him very dry of the mouth. Thankfully, but bizarrely, he had not lost the “speaking flute,” which he had been clutching in his hand when he fell unconscious. This must be the afterlife, Atile’i thought. He walked all over the island, discovering that most parts of it were none too firm. Some spots were quite spongy, like traps. Sometimes you could sink to a depth of several grown men or so before rising up again.

A round object caught Atile’i’s attention. If he turned it toward the sun it shone with a dazzling rainbow light, but if he held it toward himself, Atile’i saw a tawny, mottled, lacerated face. Could something so hard be made of water? he wondered. Otherwise how could it reflect my appearance?

Atile’i soon discovered that there were many sorts of colored bags all over the island. They were different from the burlap bags of Wayo Wayo in that they could hold water, though with some of them the water whooshed out as soon as you picked them up, leaving mussels, sea stars and other odds and ends high and dry. There were bags like this on Wayo Wayo, too. The elders said the white man had left them behind, but the past few years you often found them floating in the sea as well. The islanders used them to hold water, and they were more resistant than rock to the ravages of time. He pried open a few of the mussels and ate them raw. He even tried drinking some of the water inside. It had a stench, but no doubt it was fresh. Atile’i was so grateful he almost started to cry. With water he could live.

Atile’i kept exploring the island until noon. He found shrimp and fish wedged between various objects, scarfing things as he went along. Before he knew it, it was sunset. He had picked up lots of sodden, ripped articles, apparently of clothing, but everything was so soft, not at all like the woven hemp raiment he was accustomed to. Still, one seemed to be able to wear them once they were dry. He also discovered some bottles, which he started collecting because they were so buoyant and brightly colored. He assumed they might come in handy if he made a boat or something like that.

“This must be the land of death, and who knows what one might need here?” He piled up the bottles and other curiosities and prayed that the sea would not turn to rain, so that tomorrow the sun could lift the damp and dry everything out.

When night really fell, Atile’i figured he must still be alive, because of an old saying about the netherworld: half the year the sun shines bright, and half the year is ruled by night. The rhythm of time on this island felt the same as on Wayo Wayo; it sure didn’t seem like half a year had passed. Night in the middle of the ocean was not total darkness, as people generally imagine. The starlight and moonlight would drop through the clouds, and wondrous glowing lights would suddenly appear, sometimes so blinding a person could not get any sleep. Entranced by the spectacle, Atile’i sat on the edge of the island and brooded over an uncertain future.

When the moon started to get low in the sky, Atile’i had a feeling he was not alone. Suddenly, all around him, stood the youths who had appeared in his dream. Wearing enigmatic smiles, they observed him in his distress. Atile’i made the Wayo Wayoan gesture of goodwill, turning his palms up with his figures slightly curved. He was about to question them when a youth with a gash from his left shoulder to his abdomen pre-empted him, saying: “You guess right, we are spirits not men. All the spirits of the second sons of Wayo Wayo are here.”

“You’ve been expecting me?”

“Yes.”

“I should have known this was the netherworld. Or is this Midway Isle?”

“May the sea bless you. In all honesty, we don’t know where we are. We’ve been all over, but we never knew there was such an island. It drifted here not long ago,” said the gray-haired youth from the dream.

“So, are you going to take me with you?”

“No. We’re not angels of death. We’ve been waiting for you to join us, but since you’re still alive, all we can do for now is wait,” said the youth with the huge gash.

“Even after they die, the second sons of Wayo Wayo can never leave the sea,” said the gray-haired youth, and the others all echoed their agreement.

The spirits of the second sons were not lying: this was the first time they’d found this island. “Several days ago we agreed to meet over at Petrel Ridge and get ready to greet the next member of our company: you. That was the first time we noticed the edge of this floating island on which you’ve landed. The day of your leave-taking, we all hastened back to Wayo Wayo to hear the elders sing the psalm of farewell, praise Kabang’s wisdom and celebrate the island’s riches, your bravery and Rasula’s beauty. Every day, when we incarnate, transform into our sperm whale avatars at daybreak, we tagged alongside your boat, until it sank. You mustn’t blame us. We are the dead, the spirits of the second sons, duty-bound to observe what happens without offering help or doing harm. We never expected that you would show the strength of a fish, that you just would not die. We’ve followed you all this way, and we saw a current carry you onto this island,” said the gray-haired one, who seemed to be the leader.

Another thickset youth with a toothless mouth like a yawning cavity added, “We saw right away how strange this island was, and guessed it might be a trap set by Kabang, or a trial.”

“But then we noticed something else,” the gray-haired youth said.

“What was that?”

“That this island was moving. That it might float beyond the range of the spirits of Wayo Wayo.”

“ Beyond the range of the spirits of Wayo Wayo?”

“That’s correct: there is an invisible line we cannot pass.”

“You mean that if I’m still alive when this island crosses the line then you won’t stay by my side ?”

“May the sea bless you. If you die out there, your spirit will drift forlorn on an infinite sea.”