Once, a Woman lived on an island. The Woman made her home in a cave that overlooked a wide golden beach, and the wide blue sea, and the distant green shore of another land. And the cave was filled with everything that she needed, made by her own two hands: blankets of seagrass, rugs of wild flowers, hollow gourds of fresh water and honey, smooth slabs of rock piled high with wild vegetables and berries and birds’ eggs, and nets for catching fish of all sizes. And, carefully hung from the wall, three skins that she had woven herself: those of a turtle, a shark, and an octopus.
The Woman spent her days wandering the island, collecting food and shiny rocks and sweet flowers, or picking eggs from the nests of birds, or catching fish and crabs in her nets. And, as the mood struck her, she would walk down to the beach and pull on one of her skins — turtle or shark or octopus — and swim out into the ocean, far and deep. There, she would hunt until her belly was full, or play with the hatchlings and pups and larvae, or dance around the boats of the men who sailed from that distant green shore. And when she had tired, she would return to her cave, wrap herself in a blanket of soft and sweet-smelling seagrass, and look out across the water as the ships turned and sailed away. Day passed into night, and season into season, and year into year, and the Woman was content.
Now it happened one day that a fierce and ferocious storm rose up out of the waters and fell down from the heavens. Thunder and lightning tore the sky, and the waves of the ocean flooded the Woman’s cave. So the Woman donned her shark skin, carefully caught the turtle and octopus skins between her teeth, and swam to safety, deep down into the sea where the storm could not reach her.
There she remained until she was certain that the storm’s fury had been spent. And when she emerged, she found that she was no longer alone on her island. A man lay asleep on the warm sands of the beach, his hair matted, his lips cracked, and his clothing stained and torn. So the Woman gathered fresh water and honey and fruits and fish, and sat down and waited for him to awaken.
When the man opened his eyes, he eagerly drank the water and ate the honey and fruits and fish. And when he had finished, he turned to the Woman and said, “I am Abaka. My boat was lost during the storm, and I feared that my life would be lost, as well. What is your name, and where is your boat?”
“I have no name,” the Woman said. “Nor do I have a boat.”
“Then how did you come to this island?”
“I have always been here.”
The man laughed, disbelieving, and asked for more food and water. The Woman led him back to her cave, and there she offered Abaka all that he wanted. And when his belly was finally full, she gave him a blanket of sweetgrass and watched over him as he slept through the night.
When he awoke with the sun, Abaka told her his tale. “Our village is small, and we have only a few ships that can sail out into the deep waters to fish. Each year, we have to sail further and further. I fear that this storm destroyed the other boats, as it destroyed mine, and that now my people will starve.”
The Woman thought on what he had said. She wandered her island, gathering wild vegetables and honey, and then down to the golden beach to catch fish and crabs with her net. And when she returned to her cave, she said to Abaka,
“I shall weave a net for you. When you stand at the edge of the water and cast it out into the sea, it will catch all of the fish that you need to feed your people.”
Abaka laughed, but then watched, marveling, as the Woman began to weave the net. She used seagrasses and fish bones, the suckers of octopuses and the beaks of turtles, the claws of birds and the pincers of crabs. She wove through the remaining day and all through the night. She finished as the sun rose above the sea, and presented the net to Abaka.
He stared in wonder and astonishment. Then he laughed and danced, and thanked the Woman for her gift.
The Woman took up her turtle skin and together they returned to the shore. There, she donned her skin and Abaka again stared in wonder and astonishment. At her urging, he climbed atop her wide shell, clutching the net. And then she set out across the sea towards the distant green shore. She swam all through the day, finally reaching land as the sun began to slide beyond the far horizon.
Abaka climbed from the top of her shell.
“Thank you, Woman who has always been on her island. You saved my life, and now you save my people.”
“May your life be long and content, Abaka,” the turtle-woman said. And she turned away and swam back to her island.
Day passed into night, and season into season, and year into year. The Woman wandered her island, collecting food and water and honey, prowled the shore with her nets, and donned her skins to swim far and deep out to sea. She would play with the hatchlings and the pups and the larvae. A great scarred shark joined her many times in her hunt, and they would feast until their bellies were full. And then she would return to her cave, wrap herself in a blanket of seagrass, and look out across the water towards the distant shore. And she was content.
Then one day, a ship appeared, its hull brightly painted, its sails shimmering in the sunlight. Oars splashed in and out of the water, and men ran back and forth across the deck. When the beautiful ship touched the golden beach, the Woman, curious, emerged from her cave and walked down to the shore.
There she found Abaka waiting for her, dressed in fine clothes and surrounded by men in clothes that were not quite as fine. When he stepped down upon the golden sands, Abaka dipped his head and said,
“Woman who has always been on her island, I greet you. Because of your gift, I was able to feed my people. My village thrived. Eventually, I was proclaimed the King of my village, and then of the villages near, and then the villages far. Now, I rule the whole of the land.”
“If this brings you contentment, Abaka, than I am happy for you.”
“It would, woman of the island, but for one thing. I wish to rebuild the fleet that was destroyed those years ago by the storm. But every ship is hunted down and torn to pieces by a great scarred shark, and the men are lost to its hunger. As you aided me once before, woman of the island, will you aid me again?”
The Woman bade Abaka to remain on the golden beach. Thinking on his words, she wandered her island, gathering fruits and grasses and honey. When she returned to the shore, she said to Abaka,
“I shall weave a net for you. When you stand upon the prow of your ship, cast it over the scarred shark, who shall be caught and held, but not harmed. Sail your ship far out into the ocean, so far that you can longer see the land that you rule, and then sail another day yet. Release the shark from the net, and leave him to hunt, as it is his nature to do so. Return to your island and rebuild your fleet and feed your people, for they will be safe now.”
Abaka frowned, but nodded, then watched, marveling, as the Woman began to weave the net. She used seagrasses and shark bones, the ink of squids and the baleen of whales, the stalks of kelp and the fins of remoras. She wove through the remaining day and all through the night. She finished as the sun rose above the sea, and presented the net to Abaka.
He laughed and danced, and thanked the Woman for her gift, while his men cheered. Waving, Abaka climbed onto his ship and sailed away.
Day passed into night, and season into season, and year into year. The Woman wandered her island, collecting food and water and honey, prowled the shore with her nets, and donned her skins to swim far and deep out to sea. She would play with the hatchlings and the pups and the larvae, and hunt until her belly was full, or swim among the boats that sailed out from the distant land once again. And then she would return to her cave, wrap herself in a blanket of seagrass, and look out across the water towards the distant shore. And she was content.
Then one day, a great ship appeared, its hull brightly painted, its sails shimmering in the sunlight. Upon the prow hung the jaws of a great shark, the teeth sharp. Oars splashed in and out of the water, and men ran back and forth across the deck. When the great ship touched the golden beach, the Woman, angry, emerged from her cave and strode down to the shore.
There she found Abaka waiting for her, dressed in the finest of clothes, gold and bones and teeth draped over his chest. When he stepped down upon the warm sands, Abaka said,
“Woman, I have returned, and I would request your aid once again.”
“As you have asked for my aid twice before. You are still discontent, Abaka, though you rule the whole of your land, though you have a fleet of ships at your command, though you slew the scarred shark that hunted your people?”
Abaka smiled. “All that you say is true. I am the King of men and the admiral of a fleet and the slayer of monsters. But I lack the one thing that would make me truly content.”
“And what is this one thing, Abaka?”
“A queen to rule by my side.”
The Woman considered his words. “You wish for me to weave you a net that can catch a queen?”
Abaka’s smile grew bigger. “That I do, woman. You can do this thing for me, yes?”
“I can. Though you will not like what you catch.”
Abaka’s smile curled into a frown, the returned even bigger. “I have no doubt of your skills, woman. I am sure that you will weave me a net that will catch exactly what I desire.”
“As you say.” The Woman turned away and returned to her cave. There, she wove a net of turtle eyes and shark bones, moray fangs and octopus beaks, anemone spines and narwhal horns, stingray tails and sea krait venom. She wove through the day and all through the night, while her three skins fluttered against the walls of her cave.
With the rising of the sun, she tied her octopus skin around her waist like a shimmering skirt and returned to the golden beach. There she found Abaka pacing impatiently. Holding out the net, she said,
“I have done as you asked of me. It shall catch exactly what you desire. Now leave my island and do not return.”
Abaka smiled and bowed and took up the net. Then, with a flick of his wrists and a thrust of his arms, he cast the net over the Woman. He laughed and danced around her in triumph, holding tight to the net.
“You are what I desire, woman. I shall take you from your island to my home and I shall present you to my people, and you shall sit by my side as my queen.”
“As you say,” the Woman said. The net wound around her, the Woman followed Abaka onto his ship. They pushed away from her island and set out across the blue waters, towards the distant green land. As they sailed, Abaka continued to laugh and dance. He paraded the Woman back and forth across the deck, the net clutched tight in his fingers, ordering his men to bow and kneel as the passed.
Then, as the sun reached its height, the Woman said,
“Abaka, you were near to death when I found you. I offered you water and honey and food, and sheltered you in my home. I offered you kindness and hospitality and, in your hour of need, I came to your aid. Not once, but twice. Had you heeded my words, and released the scarred shark into the deep waters of the sea, I would have aided you a third time, as well. I would have woven you a net which would have caught what you most needed and desired: a woman of wisdom and compassion to sit by your side. Instead, you acted out of pride and greed. The hunger of the scarred shark was as nothing compared to the hunger which now eats at you.”
As her words rang across the ship, across the sea, and through the air, Abaka stopped laughing and dancing. He shrank away from her, his eyes wide.
“I say to you now, Abaka: set aside your pride and greed. Release me, return to your home, and rule wisely and well.”
But Abaka only shook his head. “I have caught you, woman, as I have caught so many fish, and the scarred shark. You are mine now.”
“As you say.”
And the Woman pulled on her octopus skin. The men of the crew ran, screaming. With her eight arms shimmering, she threw herself over the side of the ship, dragging Abaka along behind her, his hands still clutching the net. Down and down she dove, deeper and deeper until the water changed from blue to grey and then to deepest black. Abaka struggled, attempting to pull her back to the ship; but his two arms were as nothing compared to her eight arms.
And when he realized this, Abaka attempted to flee himself. But his fingers were caught in the net and he could not escape. And so Abaka drowned, his lungs filling with the black waters of the deep sea.
The hatchlings and the pups and the larvae with whom the Woman had so often played came to her then. While the elder turtles and sharks and octopuses gathered around and watched, the little ones slowly pulled apart the net, bit by bit, tugging free the bones and beaks and spines and horns. They cast aside the pieces of the net, the deep currents of the ocean carrying them away.
And the Woman left Abaka to feed the fish and the sharks, and returned to her island. There she collected food and shiny rocks and sweet flowers, picked eggs from the nests of birds, and caught fish and crabs in her nets. And, as the mood struck her, pulled on one of her skins — turtle or shark or octopus — and swam out into the ocean, far and deep.
Day passed into night, and season into season, and year into year. And the Woman was content.
[Written by Rebecca Buchanan.]