Along the shore the people of Feke gathered—fishers with nets still over their shoulders, warriors daubed in black and red, elders wrapped in mats of woven flax, and women holding children aloft to see

Along the shore the people of Feke gathered—fishers with nets still over their shoulders, warriors daubed in black and red, elders wrapped in mats of woven flax, and women holding children aloft to see. Their voices rose together, a cry that rolled like thunder across the bay. How many, he wondered, would be waiting for revenge already?

At the prow sat Howaru, unmoving, no longer guiding the steering paddle. His face as stern as the moai of Rapa iti, betraying neither joy nor pride. Totokona gripped in one hand and Kalapa in the other, its carved spearhead lifted toward Ranginui, beckoning a blessing. Faturaki stood over the middle as kaihautū, his chant carrying above the breakers while the four escorts drove one final long stroke. The waka lifted, caught the surf, and glided onto the sand.

Children of Feke rushed forward, laughing and shouting, hands gripping the sides to drag the canoe higher among the fleet of resting waka-ama. Howaru leapt over the side into the shallows, followed by the crew, seawater streaming from their legs. Waiting at the prow stood an old woman, bent and grey. The children stepped aside as she moved forward, eyes wide, as if the air around her were tapū. Her gaze found Ho, and she did not look away. He bent to greet her. The old woman spat in his face, then smiled. “Ho, Champion of Kafiki—I curse your return in the name of my son, Fa‘atuma.” Then she turned and hobbled away.

Ho wiped the spit from his beard, his hand trembling. Behind him, Faturaki had climbed down from the waka, hugging him sideways around the shoulders, while driving the children back with his staff.

“Move aside, children of Feke. Let the Champion stand.”

A darkness fell upon Ho, at the insult. Rage like the surf he stood in frothed around inside—ten years and still her curse clings to me.

“Don’t worry about that one boy.” Faturaki urged. “If it wasn’t you, it would just be someone else she’d be spitting on.”

“Her son died as he lived, cowering at her side. His death improved her status, and still she spits.”

He steadied his breath as he watched the old woman disappear up the shore toward the forest path. Some of the youths jeered after her, their voices carrying in the wind, mocking her through imitation, a hobbled over, hunched back witch.

Faturaki glanced at him. “As I said. There will always be another, Howaru. Enemies, widows, mothers seeking utu—the balance never ends. Learn to walk within it. Not in opposition to it.”

Ho sighed, then pushed through the crowd. Feke warriors swarmed, a new escort forming. Galaiga strode alongside him to the left, slapping his back, before announcing. “Children of Feke, children of Takaroa—clear the path for the Champion of Kafiki. For Howaru has returned!”

Sinakoa arrived at his right, handing him both Totokona and Kalapa, before squeezing his thigh then sliding between the crowd and out of view. He wished he could do the same. The urge to slip away tugged at Ho, but his reverence to Takaroa and custom held him in place—from little rock, across the Laptita seas, back to Kafiki—the champion had indeed returned. He caught a look on Faturaki’s face as the old man slowed beside him. A slow nod, shoulders easing as though some silent burden had been lifted. Had he been concerned about my arrival back, Ho wondered. The ariki must have spoken ahead, warning that no act of utu was to be taken today. Yet he could still sense unease in Fatu, an echo carried through the restless energy of the crowd. Perhaps the tohunga had imagined, as he had, a line of kin waiting along the shore—men bound to the dead, ready to claim blood for blood. But none stepped forward, save for the old woman. And now, with his fury cooled, he found himself respecting her courage.

Tufukia and Tu‘unaga joined Faturaki and Galaiga, flanking Ho. The village women had arrived, hair tied, skin gleaming, waving and laughing. Ho checked for the last of the crew behind him and spotted Sinakoa back at the waka, overseeing the unloading of provisions. Ahead, ranks of Feke warriors formed upon the sand, thighs, bellies, and chests painted in Feke colours. Farther up the embankment, towards the village, log drummers began to play while more of the people arrived to welcome them. The chant grew. Warriors took it up. Feet stamped. Spears beat against the earth. Now an answer from the chorus of women, calling to the gods, then to the ancestors, the nobles and chiefs, the people of Feke, and finally to Howaru, their son.

Ho continued the climb while the crowd enclosed him on every side. The rhythm entered his bones, his breath labouring. A haka erupted as he reached the top of the ridge, where Feke’s chief would be waiting. As the movements intensified, Ho felt the mana of the entire village pressing into him, sinew by sinew, reawakening what had long lain dormant. His chest felt as if it would split apart to free what was trapped within. He clenched his teeth to prevent himself from wailing. Then his legs gave way, and he fell to his knees.

Faturaki stepped ahead, lifting his god-stick, starting a new incantation. It carried through the crowd, and soon the voices rang out in unison, calling upon Takaroa and Ranginui to unite. The sea convulsed. A column of water surged upward, spinning like a living cord. Faturaki raised his staff toward Ranginui, drawing down a thread of lightning to weave with the waters. Sky and sea bound together, and the storm began to move: a luminous braid advancing toward the shore. It struck the beach, an unbroken vein of white fire racing over the sand in search of a vessel. Villagers scattered, shouting warnings, as the light twisted and found him. Howaru opened his arms, welcoming the joining of Takaroa and Ranginui.

The bolt did not hurl him aside. It entered through his crown, and at once his sight and hearing ceased. The cord of spiritual power descended through his skull, his ears, his eyes, waking each sense anew before rushing down his throat to settle in his chest. Then it twisted around his guts and groin until calm spread through him entirely.

When he opened his eyes, he saw waves upon waves of pure mana pulsing outward, dispersing through the village, washing over all.

Is this what the embrace of all atua feels like? He had expected fury, power, the rending of flesh. Instead, there was comfort, much like what he had felt in the arms of Na-Mala-o-Kala‘i. Those surrounding him, witness to the channelling, praised him as a true son of Takaroa, a wave of voices rolling up the beach, calling his name alongside the atua. And as the storm broke above them, Rā’s light poured through the parting clouds while a soft rain settled over the village, a final cleansing, returning their world from sacredness to noa.

Ho tried to rise, but the weight of mana pressed him down: heavy, radiant, filling him like an overflowing gourd. Galaiga and Tufukia caught his arms and lifted him. He stood, his legs sure beneath him, the lightning still swirling somewhere deep inside. He smiled then, the shadow of the old woman’s curse already gone. What remained was a quiet certainty that his atua had named him. At last, they left the beach, pressing through the throng along a shelled path that wound toward the great Meeting House of Feke. The people crowded close, laying offerings of fruit and fish, garlanding him with lei, and raising shells of kava in salute.

The villagers lining the road shone in bright garments dyed with crimson nonu and yellow tūrama, feathers woven through their hair, bodies oiled to glisten beneath the returning sun. As Ho passed, they pressed forward to greet him, touching his arms, pressing noses with him, weeping as they met him. A young woman stepped forward, a woven Tiputa folded in her hands. “I made this for you, Ho, for your journey into Matavai forest. It will keep you dry.”

Ho accepted the gift warmly and her hongi, her scent of coconut and pandanus oil clung to the cloth. When she leaned to embrace him, he allowed it, then drew back with a half-smile. “Your kindness will stay with me,” he said softly.

Faturaki caught the girl’s wrist and turned her aside. “Later, child. There will be time enough for greetings.”

The crowds began to thin as villagers returned to their day’s work. The guard had been reinforced by the most senior warriors, who led them around a corner and toward the meeting fale, its massive roof now visible to Howaru. When they reached the gate, attendants dressed Ho in the cape. Waiting there were Chief Taumatafiti and his entourage, and beside him Pakkuu, the most powerful tohunga of Feke Motu. Pakkuu stepped forward first, sprinkling water upon Faturaki’s face, then striking his shoulders lightly with a bundle of banana leaves dipped in the blessed pool. The two men touched noses and shared breath.

“Are you hungry, hero?” Pakkuu asked.

“I could eat Kafiki Motu itself,” Ho laughed.

“Then we had best feed you,” said the old man.

Taumatafiti raised his hands for silence. “First we eat,” he declared, “then we speak of the mission—and tonight, we taki, to honour the gods.”