Nation

you say.”
    Mau wondered if the priest had been reading his mind. He would have needed good eyesight, because rosy clouds of exhaustion floated across Mau’s thoughts, as if he was dreaming. Sleep always wanted paying; if you put off sleeping for days on end, then Sleep would sooner or later turn up with its hand out.
    “Did the gods carve the white stone?” His tongue slurred the words.
    “Yes!”
    “That was a lie,” Mau managed. “The stones have trouserman tool marks on them. Surely gods don’t need tools.”
    “ Men are their tools, boy. They put the idea of carving into the minds of our ancestors!”
    “And the other stones?”
    “Not only gods can get into a mind, boy, as you should know!”
    “You think they are demons ?” said Mau. “ Demon stones?”
    “Where you find gods, you find demons.”
    “That might be true,” said Mau. Behind him, he heard Milo snort.
    “It is my position to know the truth of things!” Ataba shouted.
    “Stop that, old man,” said Mau as gently as he could. “I’ll ask you one more time, and if I think you are lying, then I will let the gods blow your soul over the edge of the world.”
    “Ha! But you don’t believe in the gods, demon boy! Or do you? Don’t you listen to yourself, boy? I do. You shout and stamp and yell that there are no gods, and then you shake your fist at the sky and revile them for not existing! You need them to exist so that the flames of your denial will warm you in your self-righteousness! That’s not thinking, that’s just a hurt child screaming in pain!”
    Mau’s expression did not change, but he felt the words clang back and forth in his head. What do I believe? he thought. What do I really believe? The world exists, so perhaps Imo exists. But He is far away and does not care Locaha exists—that is certain. The wind blows, fire burns, and water flows for good and bad, right and wrong. Why do they want gods? We need people. That is what I believe. Without other people, we are nothing. And I believe I am more tired than I can remember.
    “Tell me who you think carved the stones, Ataba,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “Who brought them here and carved them, so long ago they lie under the coral? Tell me this, because I think you are screaming, too.”
    All sorts of thoughts twisted their way across the priest’s face, but there was no escape. “You will be sorry,” he moaned. “You will wish you didn’t know. You will be sorry that you did this to me.”
    Mau raised his finger as a warning. It was all he could manage. The pink hogs of tiredness trampled through his thoughts. In a minute he would fall over. When Ataba spoke next, in a whispered hiss, it echoed as if Mau was hearing it inside a cave. The darkness was made of too many thoughts, too much hunger, too much pain.
    “Who brings rocks here and leaves them, boy? Think on that. How many people will you hurt even more with your wonderful truth?”
    But Mau was already sleeping.
     
    Mr. Black hammered on the door of the Cutty Wren ’s wheelhouse for the second time.
    “Let me in, Captain! In the name of the Crown!”
    A hatch in the door slid back. “Where is she?” said a voice full of suspicion.
    “She’s below!” the Gentleman shouted above the roar of the wind.
    “Are you certain? She has a habit of jumping out!”
    “She’s below, I assure you! Open the door! It’s freezing!”
    “Are you positive?”
    “For the last time, man, let us in!”
    “Who’s ‘us,’ exactly?” said the voice, not to be fooled easily.
    “For heaven’s sake! Mr. Red is with me!”
    “Is he alone?”
    “Open in the name of the Crown, Captain!”
    The door opened. A hand dragged both men inside. Behind them, bolts snapped into place with a noise like gunshots.
    At least it was warmer in there, and the wind was held at bay. Mr. Black felt as though some giant had stopped punching him.
    “Is it always like this?” he said, shaking the water off his oilskins.
    “This? This is a fine day in the Roaring Forties, Mr. Black! I was about to go and have a sunbathe! You’ve come about the signal, I dare say.”
    “There was something about a tidal wave?”
    “A big one. Got this from a navy ship out of Port Mercia an hour ago. Flooding throughout the Western Pelagic. Great loss of life and damage to shipping. Port Mercia safe, it says here. Source of the wave estimated as seventy miles south of the Mothering Sundays.”
    “That’s still well to the north of