chapter forty
Chapter Forty
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Spider took to Awa’altu, the Metkayina—your home and people—like a duck took to water. Tsonu’e took great pride in assisting Claire in dressing him as a proper Metkayina, and his days were quickly passing under your watchful eye, forever trailing after Ko’oä. Ao’nung had taken to following them both, wide eyed and pointing at random objects and boldly saying their names.
Ko’oä loved Ao’nung and he loved her. Spider loved Claire and she loved him, too. He filled a strange niche, one you hadn’t really thought was needed until you saw how Ko’oä and Ao’nung played with him.
You’d been human once, too. Your children weren’t old enough to understand yet, but Tonowari had started to tell Ko’oä bedtime stories. Sometimes, he told her that you were a voyager, and you’d travelled more then just the sea to get here. Ko’oä seemed to like those stories the best, the ones with explorers and travelers. You imagined she might grow up to be a voyager too.
“Spider!” screeched Ko’oä, enraged. “No!”
Spider was staring at Ko’oä with wide eyes. She towered over him already, despite being the same age. Na’vi were bigger then humans.
Spider glared, unbothered by Ko’oä’s size or ferocity. You glanced up at them, Ao’nung lifting his face from where he’d buried it in your breast. You didn’t have any milk to give him, but you thought he enjoyed behind held like he was when he nursed even when he wasn’t actually nursing.
“Ko’oä,” you called. She turned toward you, her eyes welling with tears as she stomped over, tail swishing.
“He, he—“ said Ko’oä, before she burst into tears. You sighed, setting down your basket to bring her toward you. Ao’nung’s face scrunched in irritation at the intrusion of his sister, but he settled quickly when you brought her to the other side, resting her on your leg. She sniffled.
“What’s wrong?” you asked her patiently.
“Spider took Tslli,” Ko’oä hiccuped. Of course he did. Ko’oä had probably ripped the carved tulkun toy from his hands before he took it back. Spider was a quiet child, and he only retaliated.
Ko’oä was a lot more bold. You wiped her tears. “Was he taking Tslli back?”
Ko’oä nodded tearfully, looking ready to protest. Gently, you redirected her. “Do you want to help me for a little?”
Her lip wobbled, but she nodded again, settling her head against your shoulder. She watched you weave, her tears drying as you weaved together the basket you had promised Ìweii. She and Taweäng had finally closed in on each other after months of back and forth. You’d been sad to hear she and Taweäng would return to his Clan, and likely remain there—at least for now.
You were making her a basket for her new home. It was sturdy, water proof and easy to carry. It would float too, with the weave you were using. Ko’oä watched, fascinated. Her chubby fingers shot forward suddenly, touching the fibers.
She giggled, causing Ao’nung to shift and look at her. Ko’oä giggled, her eyes falling on her little brother. Ao’nung smiled at her, and everything was perfect.
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Mornings were with Ronal. You and her and the children in the twilight hours, just before life truly began in the village. Ko’oä was far from a morning person, cranky and demanding to be held. Ao’nung was more enthusiastic, eager to see everything. As it was, Ko’oä was in a sling against Ronal’s back, snoring. You held a beaming Ao’nung as he picked out shells for the hairpiece you were making him. His hair had just started to get long enough to braid—and unlike his sister, he was much more willing to sit still.
Ronal sat back a little, carefully stretching as best as she could with Ko’oä strapped to her, and with the bulge of her belly. The baby would come soon. You were nervous and jittery and thrilled. Tonowari wanted another girl, a little sister for Ko’oä and Ao’nung, someone for them both to play with and love.
Ronal didn’t have much of a preference. You kind of wanted another boy, but ultimately figured there would be plenty of chances. Besides, you’d wanted a little sister for Ko’oä, and you couldn’t imagine sweet Ao’nung being anyone other then himself. You wouldn’t dream of it.
“Which one?” you asked your son softly, holding up the shells. His fingers moved forward, clasping around a purplish shell.
His eyes lingered for a few minutes, and his fingers went to yours, examining them. His eyes were wide as he looked at your pinky silently. You let him, telling him quietly, “It’s called a pinky. Your new sibling won’t have one, but Ko’oä does. And, one day you might have another sibling that has one too.”
“Pinky,” repeated Ao’nung, turning to look at you. He beamed, a toothy little grin as he gurgled and buried his face in your chest. He couldn’t wrap his arms all the way around you yet. You thought of Ame, how you couldn’t wrap your arms all the way around her, and how much you loved her.
You hugged him, kissing his little face.
When you looked up, Ronal’s eyes were on you, her expression soft. You smiled at her. She smiled back.
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Ronal left the children with you that day, and you met with Tsonu’e for a late breakfast. Cranky Ko’oä had woken up, and was trailing along beside you, rubbing her eyes. You held Ao’nung with one hand, the baby propped against your side as you led the way to Tsonu’e’s marui. She was crouched over the fire when you entered.
Tsonu’e glanced up, her face brightening as you came to crouch beside her, setting Ao’nung down on a mat beside Ko’oä.
“I see you,” said Tsonu’e. You repeated the gesture, allowing yourself to be kissed on the forehead.
Afternoons were with your mother.
“I was going to dive for clams,” said Tsonu’e. You grinned at her. Ko’oä was big enough to swim independently now, for her own ilu too. She loved the water. Ao’nung did too, but he spent most of his time within arms reach of you. He could manage on his own, but you felt better knowing you could grab him quickly if needed.
“Ko’oä, do you want to dive?” you asked. Ko’oä nodded, a large grin on her face.
“Spider too,” said Ko’oä, her eyes shining. Your heart sunk a little. Spider had adapted quickly to the Metkayina lifestyle—but he wasn’t a Na’vi. Even with a breathing mask, it wasn’t safe for him in the open waters you would be going to. Ko’oä and Ao’nung would have you and Tsonu’e for protection, along with an ilu to help. Spider would have to piggy back with someone, and Ko’oä wasn’t big enough to share yet.
“Maybe next time,” you told her gently. Ko’oä frowned a little, but agreed. Tsonu’e looked between you and your daughter for a moment, quickly distracting the toddler with a snack. Ao’nung immediately demanded a snack too, squealing beside his sister. Fruit in hand, your children munched away happily, and your mother came to sit beside you, sorting through her tools.
“It is not your fault,” she reassured you. Spider. You felt endlessly guilty about him. Sometimes you wondered if you’d done the right thing brining him back. Her and Claire adored each other, but she spent a lot of time in the village, in her avatar.
Besides Yates, Spider was the only human who would stay human in Awa’altu.
“He will always feel different,” you said. “Alien.”
“He is,” said Tsonu’e simply. “But that does not mean he is wrong. He is a human, he is alien to our home. But that does not mean he can not be useful.”
She was right, you knew. The Metkayina—hell, the Navi, valued usefulness. Once you weren’t a child, you were expected to contribute in some fashion. This could be through hunting, fishing, gathering, entertainment, watching children, telling stories. Every person had a niche, a role they filled in the village.
You were a weaver. But if needed, you would be olo’eyktan, or tsahik. If anything happened to Ronal or Tonowari, you’d take their place. It was a heavy burden, one you didn’t really want. Especially with the weight of what it would mean for you to assume either of those roles. But you wore it well. Ko’oä would be tsakarem when she got older, Ronal had already started teaching her age appropriate stuff.
One day, Ko’oä would be tsahik. Ao’nung had more freedom, but Ronal and Tonowari were warriors. It was likely he would be one too. The same was true for the baby Ronal was growing—they would have more options, but they would ultimately need to find a niche.
You didn’t know what Spider’s role would be. You tried not to think about it.
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Evenings were with Tonowari. You’d scoop up the kids, bringing them back to your marui. Tonowari usually arrived a little after, and you’d have some time with just the two of you before Ronal got home.
“How was today?” you asked him. Ko’oä was in his hands, her brow furrowed as she patted his tattoos with a look of extreme intensity.
“I had the marui’s reinforced,” he said. “There is a storm coming.”
Your ears went back a little, and you glanced at Ao’nung who was gumming on a piece of dried fish. “Do you think it will be long?”
“I hope not,” he said. “We are due for a storm. All will be well, Hana.”
“I know,” you said. “I just hate when he’s upset.”
Ao’nung hated storms. The last one, he screamed the entire time—no matter what any of you did. Ko’oä had watched with wide eyes, and clung a little closer to Tonowari in the days that followed. She was bit of a daddy’s girl.
Ko’oä spoke, drawing your attention away from the impending weather. “What is this?”
Her favorite phrase. She was pointing at Tonowari’s chest, his tattoos. He drew a hand up to trace the mark, and explained to her patiently, “I earned this when I killed an akula.”
Ko’oä’s eyes shined as he explained. Ao’nung sat by you, his ears flicking as he listened. He was a little more focused on the toy fish in his hand though. You glanced at Tonowari and Ko’oä.
Ko’oä looked at you, pointing at your leg. “Mama?” she demanded.
You pointed at them, naming their meaning. The one on your chin, you said, “This one is from when we became a family.”
“I want one,” she said instantly.
Tonowari said, “You will earn one, one day sweet girl.”
She flopped her head against him, pouting. You grinned at him, and felt warm.
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