The Signature of All Things

construction of a community of tidy white cottages. He taught spelling and reading to a people who, prior to his arrival, had never seen the alphabet. Four hundred children a day attended school now and learned their catechism. Tomorrow Morning saw to it that the people did not merely ape the words of the Gospel, but understood what they meant. As such, he had already trained seven missionaries of his own, whom he had recently sent forth to even more distant islands; they, too, would swim to shore with the Bible held high, chanting the nameof Jehovah. The days of disturbance and fallacy and superstition were over. Infanticide was over. Polygamy was over. Some called Tomorrow Morning a prophet; he was rumored to prefer the word servant .
    Alma learned that Tomorrow Morning had taken a wife on Raiatea, Temanava, whose name meant “the welcoming.” He had two young daughters there as well, Frances and Edith, named after the Reverend and Mrs. Welles. He was the most honored man in the Society Islands, Alma learned. She heard it so many times, she was growing weary of hearing it.
    “And to think,” said Sister Etini, “that he came from our little school at Matavai Bay!”
    Alma did not find a moment to speak with Tomorrow Morning until late one night, ten days after his arrival, when she caught him walking alone the short distance between Sister Etini’s house, where he had just enjoyed dinner, and Sister Manu’s house, where he intended to sleep.
    “May I have a word with you?” she asked.
    “Certainly, Sister Whittaker,” he agreed, remembering her name with ease. He gave the appearance of being completely unsurprised to see her coming out of the shadows toward him.
    “Is there someplace more quiet where we might speak?” she asked. “What I need to discuss with you, I would like to address in privacy.”
    He laughed comfortably. “If ever you have managed to experience such a thing as privacy here at Matavai Bay, Sister Whittaker, I salute you. Anything you wish to say to me, you may say here.”
    “Very well, then,” she said, although she could not help but glance around to see if anyone might overhear. “Tomorrow Morning,” she began, “you and I are—I believe—more closely affixed to each other’s destinies than one might think. I have been introduced to you as Sister Whittaker, but I need you to understand that for a short period of my life, I was known as Mrs. Pike.”
    “I will not make you go any further,” he said gently, putting up a hand. “I know who you are, Alma.”
    They looked at each other in silence for what felt like a long time.
    “So,” she said, at last.
    “Quite,” he replied.
    Again, the long silence.
    “I know who you are, too,” she finally said.
    “Do you?” He did not appear the least bit alarmed. “Who am I, then?”
    But now—pushed to answer—she found that she could not easily respond to the question. Needing to say something, though, she said, “You knew my husband well.”
    “Indeed, I did. What’s more, I miss him.”
    This response shocked Alma, but she preferred this—the shock of his admission—to an argument, or a denial. Anticipating this conversation over the previous days, Alma had thought she might go mad, were Tomorrow Morning to accuse her of nefarious lies, or pretend never to have heard of Ambrose. But he did not seem inclined to resist or repudiate. She looked at him closely, seeking something in his face besides relaxed assuredness, but could see nothing amiss.
    “You miss him,” she repeated.
    “And I always will, for Ambrose Pike was the best of men.”
    “So says everyone,” said Alma, feeling vexed and slightly outplayed.
    “For it was true.”
    “Did you love him, Tamatoa Mare?” she asked, again searching his face for a break in his equanimity. She wanted to catch him by surprise, as he had caught her. But his face displayed not a whit of unease. He did not even blink at the use of his given name.
    He replied, “All who met him, loved him.”
    “But did you love him particularly ?”
    Tomorrow Morning put his hands in his pockets and looked up toward the moon. He was not in a hurry to reply. He looked for all the world like a man waiting leisurely for a train. After a while, he returned his gaze to Alma’s face. They were not far from the same height, she noticed. Her shoulders were not so much narrower than his.
    “I suppose you wonder about things,” he said, by means of an answer.
    She felt she was losing