Nation

need more tubers, and maybe some beer, but not too much. First, though, he’d have to catch a fish—
    And there one was, only a little way away from his feet, white against the white sand so that only its pale shadow gave it away. It floated there like a gift from the gods—No! It was there because he had been so still, as a hunter should be. It was completely unaware of him.
    He speared the fish, cleaned it, and took it to the priest, who was sitting between the two big god anchors.
    “You know how to cook fish, sir?”
    “Are you here to blaspheme against the gods, demon boy?” said Ataba.
    “No. It would only be blasphemy to say they didn’t exist if they were real,” said Mau, keeping his voice level. “Now, can you cook fish?”
    By the look of it, Ataba was not going to argue religion when there was fresh food around.
    “Since before you were born,” said the old man, eyeing the fish greedily.
    “Then let the ghost girl have some, and please make a gruel for the woman.”
    “She won’t eat it,” said Ataba flatly. “There was food on her raft. There is something wrong in her head.”
    Mau looked at the Unknown Woman, who was still by the fire. The ghost girl had brought along more blankets from the Sweet Judy , and at least the woman was sitting up now. Daphne was beside her, holding her hand and talking to her. They are making a Women’s Place, he thought. The language doesn’t matter.
    “There will be others,” said Ataba behind him. “Lots of people will end up here.”
    “How do you know?”
    “The smoke, boy! I saw it from miles away! They will come. We weren’t the only ones. And maybe the Raiders will come, too, from their great land. You will call upon the gods then, oh yes! You will grovel before Imo when the Raiders come.”
    “After all this? What’s left for them? What have we still got that they would want?”
    “Skulls. Flesh. Their pleasure in our death. The usual things. Pray to the gods, if you dare, that those cannibals do not come this far.”
    “Will that help?” said Mau.
    Ataba shrugged. “What else do we have?”
    “Then pray to the gods to send milk for the child,” said Mau. “Surely they can do something so simple?”
    “And what will you do, demon boy?”
    “Something else!” Mau paused then, and thought: He’s an old man. He came many miles, and he did stop for the woman and her baby. That is important. He let his anger subside again. “I don’t mean to insult you, Ataba,” he said.
    “Oh, I understand,” said the old man. “We all rage against the gods sometimes.”
    “Even you?”
    “Yes. First thing every morning, when my knees go click and my back aches. I curse them then, you can be certain of it. But quietly, you understand. And I say, ‘Why did you make me old?’”
    “And what do they reply?”
    “It doesn’t work like that. But as the day wears on and there is maybe some beer, I think I find their answer arising in my mind. I think they tell me: ‘It is because you will prefer it to the alternative.’” He looked at Mau’s puzzled expression. “Not dead, you see?”
    “I don’t believe that,” said Mau. “I mean, I think you’re just hearing your own thoughts.”
    “Do you wonder where your thoughts come from?”
    “I don’t think they come from a demon!”
    Ataba smiled. “We shall see.”
    Mau stared at the old man. He had to be proud about this. This was Mau’s island. He had to act like a chief.
    “There is something I am going to try,” he said stiffly. “This is for my Nation. If I don’t come back, you can stay here. If you stay, there are the huts at the Women’s Place. If I come back, I will fetch you beer, old man.”
    “There is beer that happens and beer that does not happen,” said the priest. “I like the beer that happens.”
    Mau smiled. “First there must be the milk that happens,” he said.
    “Fetch it, demon boy,” said Ataba, “and I’ll believe anything!”

The Milk That Happens

    M AU HURRIED UP TO the Women’s Place and entered more boldly than he had done before. There was no time to waste. The sun was dropping down the sky, and the ghost of the moon was rising.
    This had to work. And he’d have to concentrate, and time it right and he probably wouldn’t get another try.
    First, get some beer. That wasn’t hard. The women made mother-of-beer every day, and he found some fizzing gently to itself on a shelf. It was full of dead flies, but they would be no problem. He