Chapter Text
Polyphemus fills the Pandoran night with an otherworldly glow.
Eywa’eveng breathes in an endless, ever-changing cycle, from the ikran eyries of the floating mountains to the starlit seas where the Tulkun sing.
Under the light of Eclipse, the great hunting plains of the Olangi clan stretch like an emerald ocean out towards the horizon; giant, fan-topped trees spear from the grass like ancient monuments, reaching up as though to grasp the sky.
And there, sprawling like firelit roots from the base of one such tree, a sea of tents – the leaves and woven bark-fibre of the Omaticaya, the reeds and woven fabric of the Metkayina and Ta’unui, the akul hides and leathers of the Kekunan and Tayrangi – on and on, the songs of each clan different but their purpose the same.
Eight years ago, the Olangi clan had followed the call of Toruk Makto and gone to war against the Sky People in the foothills of the floating mountains. There, they had ridden their pa’li into a storm of steel rain and ravenous flame, and were consumed.
An entire generation of warriors eclipsed like fire among the dry grass; leaving only their elders and younger children, and lastly, pulled bleeding from the blood and the smoke, their Olo’eyktan, Akwey.
There had been too few to return to the plains; they had been welcomed into the Omaticaya as brothers and sisters.
But now, eight years after the Olangi were all but destroyed, the eldest of the surviving children are finally grown enough to become taronyu.
The Olangi have returned to their ancestral homelands at last, and with them are Eywa’s people; near all the Na’vi clans gathered upon the plains. For it is not only the celebration of a clan’s rebirth; it is also the time of Txanal Sӓtaron.
Txanal Sӓtaron, the Great Hunt, held only once every ten years when Polyphemus lies at aphelion. Where the clans will hunt together under the breath of Eywa, from the talioang of the plains and the yerik of the floating mountains to the mouth of the sea, where hunters will challenge akula for their prey.
It is a time of thanksgiving and of praise to Eywa for the balance of hunting and rebirth. The Na’vi will hunt from the overflowing cup of Eywa’s blessings, but only until it is no longer brimming. No more, no less.
In two days’ time, they will begin the hunt – warriors will drive the talioang, the sturmbeest, down from the arid foothills into the plains, and young Olangi hunters will leap across the thundering herd and become taronyu.
But tonight – tonight is a time of celebration.
“Toruk Makto!” the laughing call dances across the cook-fire. “Come, share a drink with us!”
Tonowari raises his head, halfway through pouring a half-dozen small shell cups of liquor. He recognises the speaker – Akwey, Olo’eyktan of the Olangi clan, his laughing face all the more fearsome for the bone rod thrust horizontally through his nose.
A bowshot away, the distinctive figure of Jake Sully turns from where he had been speaking with Ikeyni, Olo’eyktan of the Tayrangi clan. Behind them, their two ikran sniff curiously at each other.
“You are cruel, Akwey,” Ra’natu laughs from where he lounges in the grass beside Tonowari. The Ta’unui chief has matched Tonowari cup for cup this evening, and shows no sign at all for it. “Tonowari’s grandfather’s grandfather first fermented this brew. It has caused many a young warrior to empty their stomachs like newborn ilu-pups.”
“You speak as though you did not nearly do the same the first time I offered you this brew,” Tonowari says pointedly, and leans gamely away from the elbow Ra’natu attempts to dig into his side.
“Hush, he approaches,” Akwey murmurs, and steps forward to clasp Jake’s wrist in a warrior’s greeting.
Jake pats Akwey’s elbow, smiling, and crouches to join their little circle, clasping Tonowari and Ra’natu’s wrists in turn.
It has been eight years since Tonowari first met Toruk Makto, but the sensation of Jake’s five-fingered hand around his wrist is still a little jarring. This Toruk Makto certainly speaks Na’vi with far more fluency now than he had as a young warrior then, but his body is still that of the dream-walkers.
“What’s this?” Jake’s chieftain’s shawl of dried leaves rustles as he reaches for one of the innocuous-looking shell cups. Behind him, Ikeyni tilts her head, her nostrils flaring as she scents the air. Her lips part in a knowing smile as she looks between Jake and the cups of liquor on the ground.
“A drink from my village,” Tonowari says, as Akwey gives Ikeyni a pointed don’t-give-it-away look over Jake’s head. “My grandfather’s grandfather was the first to brew it. My grandfather taught my father how to make it, and my father taught me.”
There is genuine interest in Jake’s eyes as he reaches for a cup – a hunger to learn. It is what garnered Tonowari’s respect the first time they met on the cusp of war; Jake’s earnest explanation that he had only newly become Na’vi, and that he wished to learn as much as he could of Eywa and her people.
It almost makes Tonowari apologetic for what he is about to do.
“So, how do you usually do this?” Jake says, a cup of liquor already in his hands. “Like a shot?”
“A shot?” Tonowari says, pausing in lifting his own cup.
Jake blinks. “Sorry, I meant – in one swallow?”
Ikeyni bares her fangs in a full grin. Her ears flick in anticipation.
“Yes,” Tonowari says, and holds Jake’s gaze as they both down the liquor as one.
The taste of fish guts fermented in decade-old kelp burns down Tonowari’s throat – the scent of the fermenting hut his grandfather had been so proud of, that Tonowari spent so much of his childhood helping preserve. It is a good scent, though pungent; it reminds him of home.
“Ah,” Tonowari breathes in satisfaction.
Across from him, Jake’s face washes a peculiar shade of pale blue, like sea-foam that has been caught in a circular current for too long and is beginning to go grey.
“How is it, brother?” Akwey says, smiling widely as he grasps Jake’s shoulder. “Is it not sublime?”
Beside Tonowari, Ra’natu turns away; Tonowari can sense it is because he is trying desperately not to laugh.
“Indescribable,” Jake says, his voice even despite the sudden water in his eyes. “Your grandfather really knew what he was doing, Tonowari.”
Tonowari feels a swell of respect for the warrior opposite him.
But it is not enough to tempt his mercy.
“Then you must have more,” Tonowari says, smiling courteously as he presses another full cup into Jake’s hand and takes up another of his own. “I have come well prepared; there are three more jars in my tent.”
Jake’s smile remains fixed even as his tail begins to lash in the grass.
Behind Jake, Ikeyni folds nearly double, her shoulders shaking with silent mirth.
Tonowari raises his drink, and watches Jake do the same.
The cup is almost at Jake’s lips before Ra’natu explodes with laughter and reaches over to snatch the cup away.
“You are too brave a warrior, my friend!” Akwey exclaims as he takes Jake by the shoulders and shakes him playfully. “Truly unmatched!”
Jake looks bewildered as Tonowari and Ra’natu salute him with their cups and down the liquor together. Ikeyni has collapsed into paroxysms in the dirt across the fire; she howls with laughter as Jake twists to stare at her.
“This was a prank,” Jake says numbly, looking between them all. “You all pranked me.”
“A prank?” Tonowari questions, smiling widely.
“A planned joke,” Jake says, the grey-blue skin of his face washing with colour again. “Damn. Don’t let Neytiri hear about –”
“Ma Jake?”
All five Olo’eyktan look towards the edge of the circle of firelight, where Neytiri approaches, her ears flicking in curiosity. One of her hands rests on her pregnant stomach; the other grasps loosely around her bow.
“Neytiri te Tskaha Mo’at’ite,” Tonowari acknowledges, bringing his hand to his brow and out again. “I see you.”
Around him, the other Olo’eyktan greet Neytiri; she returns their greetings formally, as a daughter of a past Olo’eyktan herself, but her eyes remain on her mate.
“Ma Jake,” she says, coming to kneel beside him. “You are sweating.”
Ikeyni snorts audibly.
“Oh, I’m fine,” Jake says, even as his forehead glistens with moisture. “My fellow chiefs were just introducing me to a special drink Tonowari brought from his village.”
Neytiri’s gaze turns to Tonowari, sharp and fierce and questioning.
“My grandfather’s brew,” Tonowari says, holding Neytiri’s gaze calmly. “I would offer you some, but I know you will not enjoy it. It is a learned taste.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” Jake mutters.
Neytiri looks between her mate and Tonowari. Then she raises her chin sharply, and holds out a hand expectantly.
Tonowari duly passes her a newly filled cup. Beyond the fire, Ikeyni is looking at Neytiri with thinly veiled admiration.
“Neytiri,” Jake says, concern painting his features. “Are you sure–”
“I am Tsahik in training,” Neytiri hushes him as she looks over the liquor with an expert eye. “This will not harm our child.”
Tonowari and Neytiri share a nod, and both down the liquor together.
Silence.
Neytiri lowers the cup. “I see,” she says, her golden eyes contemplative. “This would be useful for forcing wakefulness in those who are too ill to wake properly.”
“My mate is Tsahik of our village,” Tonowari says, feeling new swell of regard for the warrior before him. “She has used it for such a purpose, but not often.”
“I will be the next Tsahik of my people,” Neytiri says, looking entirely unaffected by her husband’s slack-jawed stare. “May I ask for a little so that I may learn more from it?”
Tonowari nods assent, filling the small bark jar that Neytiri hands him.
All of the other olo’eyktan are looking at Neytiri with new respect now – well, all except for Jake, whose expression is slowly morphing into such reverent adoration that Tonowari suppresses a laugh.
Toruk Makto is plainly a husband first and a warrior second, as he should be.
“Come, ma Jake,” Neytiri says as she rises. “The children are refusing to sleep until their father tells them the story of the metal moon and the warrior with the blade of light.”
Eagerness sparks in Jake’s eyes. “That’s a good one,” he laughs, and stands, brushing off his knees. “Good prank, everyone,” he says, nodding to his fellow Olo’eyktan. “Have a good night.”
Tonowari joins the chorus of farewells, and watches Jakesully and his mate move into the maze of Omaticaya tents.
Jake and Neytiri have not fully disappeared into the shadows before Jake’s tail wraps playfully around Neytiri’s waist and tugs her closer to his side; Neytiri raises an easy hand and smacks him sharply on the temple. Jake’s laugh rings across the grass.
Tonowari is filled with sudden longing for Ronal and his children. He had deemed Aonung and Tisreya too young to attend the hunt, Aonung having just turned eight and Tsireya almost seven, but it seems most of the Omaticaya have brought their children with them to see their Olangi friends become taronyu.
“You look as though an akula stole your fish, brother,” Ra’natu says, clasping Tonowari’s shoulder.
Tonowari shakes his head, gathering up the shell cups. “I miss my family,” he says. “It has been no more than three days since I last saw my children, but I ache for them like a missing limb.”
“Ah, you have my sympathies,” Ra’natu says, as Akwey and Ikyeni split off towards their own clans. “My son is newly taronyu, and when he goes hunting far across the southern sea I look to the stars and ask Eywa to guide him home safely.”
“I will do that,” Tonowari says, fingering the songcord at his waist. “I have not sung today. I shall find water.”
Ra’natu grasps Tonowari’s wrist briefly and stands. “I shall find you tomorrow, brother. Toruk Makto said there would be sparring in the river. I will take great pleasure in facing you.”
“You mean you will take great pleasure in losing,” Tonowari says, and shares a laugh with the Ta’unui chief before they both go to see to their people.
(:~:)
It is well and truly the longest hour of Eclipse when Tonowari reaches the river.
The songs and laughter of the camp behind him have grown muted as most seek sleep; Tonowari is illuminated solely by starlight and the luminescent grass as he moves towards the water, the grass a rippling wave around his waist.
The river is not the sea, which thrums with every beat of Eywa’s mighty heart; but it still hums with her familiar song as all Eywa’eveng does.
The reeds at the river edge give way easily under his hand, each swaying frond glowing briefly emerald as it meets his fingers. Beyond, the river here is a bowshot wide, and shimmers with glowing fish between the polished stones. There, at the riverbank, Tonowari plants his spear in the soft loam and kneels. He takes up his songcord carefully, the shells and sea-obsidian a comforting weight in his palm, and opens his mouth to sing.
He stops before he begins, ears flicking.
For a moment, he can only hear the sound of rushing water and the whisper of wind through the prairie grass.
Then faintly, in the distance: The sound of singing.
A clear, quiet voice, singing with a distinctly Omaticaya lilt.
Tonowari rises, gathering up his spear, and takes a half-dozen steps upriver before he hears the youthful waver in the soft notes and realises with a twist of confusion that this must be a child.
An Omaticaya child, out past the camp edge in the middle of Eclipse, alone.
If Jake Sully cares for the children of his clan as much as Tonowari does, he would certainly find this troubling.
Tonowari’s feet leave soft indents in the mud of the bank as he moves closer to the singing. Despite the strangeness of the situation, he cannot deny the child has a beautiful voice. The song is plainly written to be sung over a songcord, and rises in praise of the beauty of Eywa’s forests in the night.
Though oddly, as Tonowari approaches, he can hear a faint note of wistful loneliness strung through the song, like a hidden undercurrent. It does not overwhelm the beauty of the melody above, but hovers there, dark and wild, as though it might at any moment swallow the song whole.
Tonowari frowns. There is no reason for any Na’vi child to have loneliness sung into their songcord like this.
He approaches a bend in the river, the pebbles of the bank giving way under his feet with a soft crunch.
He hears a choked gasp as the song cuts off abruptly; the tall grass flares with emerald light as something scrabbles frantically away, rustling through the grass.
“Peace, child,” Tonowari calls. “I am not a hunting zeswanan.” Even as he speaks, a new chill enters his heart. If he were a zeswanan – a grass viper – the child would already be dead.
The grasslands of Eywa’eveng at night is no place for a defenseless child.
No child emerges from the starlit grass, but there is a faint pulse of luminescent green a few paces away as the prairie-grass rustles.
“I’m sorry,” a clear, flute-like voice says –a young boy’s voice, Tonowari realises. “Was I singing too loud?”
Tonowari smiles. “No,” he says. “You sang beautifully.”
Silence. There is something about the stillness of the air that suggests shock.
“Thank you,” comes the voice again, softer, with a waver at the end that makes Tonowari start forward in concern.
A yelp. The grass rustles as the patch of luminescent green moves rapidly away.
“Child,” Tonowari says, opting for the tone of voice he usually uses when Aonung is being evasive about something. “You cannot remain here alone. There are predators you are unfamiliar with, and your family will be worried for you. They will surely come searching.”
A pause.
“I’m fine,” the boy says, his voice full of childish pride. “Nobody’s going to come looking for me. I have my knife. I know what I’m doing.”
Tonowari is reminded of Aonung proudly brandishing his first training spear two moons ago, only to whack himself over the head with it not a moment later.
“You are not fine,” he says, and sees a shimmering flash in the grass, as though the child had flinched. “It is not safe to wander alone out of the encampment when you are so young. Where are your parents?”
Silence. The wind whispers through the grass, almost mournfully.
“I’m fine,” the voice comes again, a hard note to it that only deepens Tonowari’s confusion. “You’re out here alone, too.”
Tonowari laughs. “I am a warrior, child. Olo’eyktan of the Metkayina clan. And I have brought my spear.”
A pause, then, huffily: “That’s unfair.”
“It is hardly unfair when I can count many more years than you,” Tonowari says. “How many winters have you seen, boy?”
“Eight,” the boy says proudly. “But I’ll be nine in a month.”
Tonowari fights a grimace. Aonung has just turned eight and still sometimes reaches for his parents in his sleep like he did when he was an infant. When Aonung sings over his songcord he always asks for Tonowari or Ronal to be there, soaking up their praise like a sea-sponge.
Who is this young child in the grass whose songcord is strung with loneliness, and puts more confidence in his knife than the parents who will surely be losing their minds with worry over his disappearance?
“You are Omaticaya?” Tonowari says.
“Yes,” the voice comes, with a hard, challenging edge to it. “I am.”
“Then you will be old enough for iknimaya in a few short years,” Tonowari says. “When you are taronyu you will be free to hunt alone and wander into danger as you wish. But for now, you are a child. You belong with your family, where it is safe. Not alone here in the grass where a grass-viper might get to you.”
There is a long, long silence after Tonowari’s words, heavy and suffocating. Even the grass is no longer glowing; the child must be frozen in place.
Then: “I’m not alone now,” the child says, the pout audible in his voice. “You’re here.”
Tonowari abruptly recalls the fierce intelligence in Tsireya’s eyes when she stubbornly argues circles around Tonowari’s lectures. It makes him smile.
“A brave attempt, but no,” Tonowari says, breathing a chuckle. He came to the river to sing to Eywa, and here he is arguing with a child. “I will not be here for the rest of the night, child. You should return to the Omaticaya camp.”
A flash of emerald green as the grass shifts. “Why did you come out here?”
“I wished to sing to Eywa,” Tonowari says, and blinks a little. There is something about the lilting, curious voice of this child that makes Tonowari want to answer every request. “But that is irrelevant. Return to your family.”
“Fine,” the child says, a little petulantly, and the grass begins to shimmer as it rustles.
Tonowari is about to turn back to the river when he realises the trail of glowing grass is not heading towards the tents, but instead moving further upriver, away from camp.
“Boy,” he calls, a warning hiss in his voice, and hears a muffled squeak of surprise. “That is not the way back to camp.”
“Wiya,” the child curses. “The grass. I should have known.”
Tonowari moves purposefully into the waist-high grass, heading unerringly for the tell-tale glow a bowshot away.
The child screams.
The sound lashes across Tonowari’s face like a kelp whip; he reels back instinctively as his hand tightens around his spear, and when he refocuses on the grass around him all is still. There is not a glimmer of emerald. Even the wind has stopped.
“Child!” Tonowari shouts, looking desperately around him. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” the voice comes, small and plaintive and young. “Just…please. Don’t come over here. Go back to singing. Let me be.”
“Boy–” Tonowari bites back a frustrated hiss. He must not frighten the child any further. “Boy, this cannot continue. Your olo’eyktan will no doubt be concerned that a child of his clan can wander so long beyond the camp unnoticed.”
“No! You can’t tell J– Toruk Makto!” the child shouts desperately as the grass flares emerald a few paces from Tonowari’s feet. “You can’t!”
Tonowari stares at the glowing patch in the grass, fighting his urge to stalk over to it and pull this frustrating child out into the starlight. He is sure that would only make the boy run away.
“Why do you insist on remaining here?” he asks, because this child does not make sense. “Why did you come here alone?”
Silence.
Then, softly: “I wanted…I wanted to hear Eywa. To sing.”
The admission softens Tonowari’s heart. Is this not precisely what Tonowari himself came here to do?
It is admirable, to have such a connection with Eywa in one so young. But it is no excuse.
“What is your name?” Tonowari says, softer. “I am Tonowari.”
The grass stays stubbornly still and silent.
Tonowari sighs. “Then what do you suggest we do? I cannot allow you to remain here.”
“You said you came here to sing, too,” the voice says, quiet. “So, sing. I’ll go back to the Omaticaya camp when you’re done.”
Tonowari lifts his face to the sky and breathes a silent prayer to the Great Mother for patience.
He takes a breath. “You promise to return when I have finished singing?”
“Yes.” The response is immediate. “I promise.”
Tonowari resists the urge to rub at his tired brow. It had been a long journey from the sea to the plains, and the night is growing deeper. He wishes to calm his spirit with song, and then return to his waiting pallet.
“Very well,” Tonowari says. “One song. Then we will return.”
He forces himself to turn and take the few steps back to the riverbank. He lowers himself to his knees and watches the glowing river-fish dart among the rocks.
There is the shifting of dry grass at his back, drawing steadily closer, until it stops a little way behind him.
“What are you going to sing?” the voice says, quiet and clear, like the tide-pools in daylight.
Tonowari considers the question. The songs of his songcord are too private for this child’s ears, but there are songs all Metkayina learn as children – hymns to Eywa and the sea.
Tonowari inhales, and begins to sing.
He sings the song of the spirit tree of the Cove of Ancestors, which all Metkayina children learn from the moment they can speak. It is a song of the golden spirit-grass that the Metkayina give all their ancestors when they pass; the grass that is Eywa’s cloak, that she extends to all her children to welcome them home. A song of the endless push and pull of the tide, the cycle of the seasons, air and water, sky and sea.
The river responds to Tonowari’s song; iridescent fish flare in its depths, and the very river stones seem to hum.
The last note fades into the laughing currents of the river, and Tonowari lifts his head.
The rustling is very close behind him now. Tonowari does not turn to look, no matter how much he wishes to. It would betray the child’s trust.
“That was… amazing,” the boy says, his voice soft with awe. “What was that?”
“The song of my clan’s spirit tree,” Tonowari says. “It is of the sea, as are all Metkayina. We give our dead to the golden spirit-grass at its roots.”
“It’s beautiful,” the boy declares, with the unshakable certainty of a child. “I love it.”
Tonowari’s heart warms. It is no small thing for an Omaticaya child to see the beauty of Eywa’s creation in the sea as Metkayina do.
“Thank you,” he says.
The child hums happily. “Will you teach me?”
Tonowari startles; he nearly turns his head before he remembers he cannot. “You wish to learn this spirit-song?” he says.
“Yes!” the child says eagerly. “Can you teach me? Please?”
Tonowari opens his mouth to reply, but reconsiders. The night grows late, and the child has been apart from his family for too long.
“Find me tomorrow,” he says. “I promise I will teach you then.”
The boy makes a noise of disappointment. “But–”
“It is late,” Tonowari chides. “You must return to your family. They are surely missing you.”
A gusty sigh. The scrabbling of small hands and feet in the grass; when Tonowari turns, the glow in the grass has already moved a few paces back towards the camp.
Tonowari feels the corner of his mouth curve without prompting. “Very good,” he calls. “Continue.”
A whine. “You’re going to follow me all the way back?” There is a faint note of fear hidden under that childish annoyance.
Tonowari considers this. “Only so far as to be sure you will reach the Omaticaya camp unharmed,” he says. “I will not seek to inform your elders. This I promise. But you must not attempt to explore alone again.”
A pause. “Deal,” the child says, and the rustling starts up again.
Tonowari follows the glow in the grass, hearing the patter of small steps before him, until they reach the very edge of the firelight. Beyond, the woven bark-fibre tents of the Omaticaya are warm, inviting.
The rustling stops at the edge of the long grass.
“You promised,” the voice says warily.
“I did,” Tonowari says, swinging his spear over his shoulder. “I shall leave you now. I trust you know the way back to your family tent?”
“Yes,” the reply comes quickly.
“Very well,” Tonowari says. “It was good to meet you, child.”
The voice is quiet and soft when it replies.
“It was good to meet you too.”
Tonowari smiles, and turns to skirt the edge of the camp back to the Metkayina tents. Curiosity gnaws at him to turn his head, but he pushes down on the impulse with a warrior’s steadiness and continues on.
His earlier longing for his family has settled into a cool lake in his chest, present without pain.
He goes to sleep thinking of the flute-like voice by the river, and the pitter-patter of small feet through the emerald grass before him.
(:~:)
Spider waits until Tonowari’s fiery shawl fades into the long grass further down the edge of the camp before he shuffles carefully away from the Omaticaya tents.
He moves slowly, hands and feet pressing to the dry ground, until he can once more hear the river rushing close by.
He breathes a sigh, and sits heavily.
His stomach rumbles painfully. Kiri and Lo’ak had only been able to sneak him a small portion of food today, the rest being inedible to humans.
A part of Spider regrets lying to Norm a week ago – when he had looked Norm in the eye and said that Spider was allowed to come to the Great Hunt, and that he would be flying to the plains with the Sully family.
Norm had been all too happy to supply Spider with spare batteries for his exopack, wishing him a good trip.
The McCoskers had hardly noticed when Spider left one morning; but they hardly notice when he is there, either, so Spider had not bothered telling them not to expect him back for a few days.
While most of the Omaticaya had flown to the plains on their ikran, the Olangi had gone by pa’li, as tradition dictated; Spider had spent an exhausting few days tracking the group through the forest, until at last the plains opened before them and he snuck into the camp to find Lo’ak and Kiri.
Both of them had been delighted to see him, though Kiri had been worried about their parents’ possible reaction.
Spider had pointed out that there was no need to worry about Jake and Neytiri if they never found out, to which Lo’ak and Kiri easily agreed. The three of them had huddled in the grass just off the side of the Omaticaya camp, giggling like thieves, before they separated with a promise to sneak food to Spider.
That had been two days ago.
They had made a pact that Lo’ak and Kiri would bring Spider food, yes; but none of them had anticipated that it would be so difficult.
Breakfast had been a single melon fruit. Spider had waited all this long afternoon and evening, his stomach cramping with hunger, until Lo’ak had crashed through the reeds by the river and thrust a small bark bowl into Spider’s hands.
“I’m sorry, bro,” Lo’ak had whispered as Spider inhaled the food. “Mom’s watching us like a hunting ikran. Kiri had to demand Mom find Dad for a bedtime story before I could sneak out to get this to you. I can’t stay long. I told ‘teyam I was going to pee.”
Spider had snorted, despite the remaining hunger growling at his stomach. “He’s gonna think you did more than pee,” he had laughed, and ducked Lo’ak’s punch before the other boy scurried back into the grass, and Spider was alone again.
His stomach had growled so furiously that he had plucked out the thin little songcord he made for himself a year ago and began to sing, just to distract himself.
That had been a mistake. He had sung like he did when he was alone in the forest; directly to Eywa, to the ground and the grass and the river and the sky.
And the Metkayina olo’eyktan, Tonowari, had almost discovered Spider.
There had been a moment when Tonowari had started into the grass and Spider scrabbled backwards that he was sure Tonowari would drag him before Jake, and Spider would be sent back to Hell’s Gate.
Or worse. Spider is not Na’vi, not truly, and this is one of their most sacred and traditional hunts. He cannot imagine Neytiri reacting well to his presence.
But Tonowari had not done any of those things.
He had stopped when he heard Spider’s fear. He had stopped, and waited, and asked what Spider wished to do.
He had listened.
And when Spider had requested him to sing, he sang.
Tonowari had sung the most beautiful hymn to Eywa Spider had ever heard; the sound of a sea Spider has never seen, only read about in Norm and Max’s study modules.
Spider had crouched in the grass, breathless, shuffling ever closer to the Metkayina chief, until he could almost reach out and touch the fiery shawl across Tonowari’s shoulders.
Tonowari had promised to teach Spider that song.
Spider curls tighter around himself as the wind whistles through the grass. There is no point to this. He cannot find Tonowari tomorrow, or any day after. Spider can only circle the Na’vi camp like a scavenger, waiting for Lo’ak and Kiri to bring him food.
Spider shivers. It is as cold during the night as it is hot in the day, here. He should have thought to ask Kiri to bring a blanket.
But then Neytiri would probably notice the missing blanket, and Spider would be doomed.
Spider burrows deeper into the grass, clutching his thin, faded leather songcord to his chest, and falls into a fitful sleep.
He dreams of the thunder of sturmbeest hooves; the cry of ikran, the wind through the long grass.
He dreams of a far-off sea, the water cool, crystalline blue, and a blanket of golden sea-grass that warms him like a cloak as he rests among its whispering depths.
And there in his sleep, even as his stomach rumbles and he shivers with cold, Spider smiles.