Mar’i
The Final Memory: The Day the Mountain Wept Fire
It happened during the Nuku Hiva festival. The twin moons, Terrenis and Triluna, were full and glorious, bathing the island in a soft, ethereal light that made the white sand glow and the ocean shimmer like liquid silver. The entire island was alive. The air was thick with the scent of roasting pork, sweet hibiscus, and the sweet, spicy smoke of Lullaweed, a scent that meant freedom and celebration. The bonfires roared, sending sparks spiraling up into the night sky to join the stars. The drums beat a rhythm that was the island’s own heartbeat, a primal, joyful pulse that you felt in your bones, in your blood.
This was their village, a cluster of homes built from driftwood and woven palm fronds, nestled in the protective embrace of a cove. Tonight, it was the center of the universe. Children ran with glowing sparklers, leaving trails of light in the dark. Old women sat in woven chairs, their faces wrinkled like maps of a long, happy life, their knowing eyes missing nothing. Lovers had already slipped away into the shadows of the spires, their laughter echoing back on the sea breeze.
Mar’i was the heart of the celebration. She was a whirlwind of color and motion, a living embodiment of the island’s spirit. Her bare feet flew over the cool sand, her teal and magenta braids a vibrant blur as she danced, her body moving with a fluid grace that was both sensual and sacred. Every laugh was a gift to the twin moons, every sway a prayer of thanks. Her eyes, however, kept straying to a young fisherman named Kael, who was tending one of the large cooking pits. He caught her gaze and a slow, confident smile spread across his face, a silent promise for later in the evening, a tryst to be consummated under the light of the twin moons. The thought sent a pleasant shiver through her, a delicious anticipation for the kind of freedom the island celebrated most.
Her brothers were with her, her anchors, her partners in this wild, beautiful life. Akassh, the eldest, was trying to look dignified but failing, a wide grin on his face as he clumsily mimicked her dance steps, his long limbs getting tangled in his enthusiasm. Larek, the middle brother, was the true musician of the family, his hands flying over a handheld drum, adding a complex, wild rhythm to the celebration that was uniquely his. And Onare, the youngest, just a boy, was clinging to her leg, laughing, his face painted with glowing festival colors that made him look like a little spirit. Her father, a fisherman whose hands were as calloused and strong as the island rock, was watching them with a look of pure, unadulterated love, his chest swelling with a pride so deep it was painful. Her mother, a priestess of Taumalie, was leading a chant that rose and fell with the music, her voice a powerful, melodic current that pulled everyone into its embrace, weaving them all together into a single, perfect moment.
It was perfect. It was everything. It was the kind of joy you felt in your soul, a memory so bright you thought it would keep you warm for the rest of your life.
Then the mountain screamed.
The first sign was the smell—bitter sulfur and hot ash that choked the sweet air. The celebratory music faltered. A deep, subterranean groan shook the very ground beneath their feet. People looked up in confusion at Fire-Voice Mountain, silhouetted against the beautiful twin moons.
Then the world ended.
Fire-Voice Mountain exploded. A plume of fire and ash shot into the sky, blotting out the twin moons and plunging the festival into a terrifying, false night. The ground split open with a deafening roar that swallowed the drums and the screams. A river of molten rock, faster than any horse, poured down the mountainside.
Chaos. Pure, unadulterated chaos.
Her family tried to run. Her father grabbed her and Onare, his face a mask of ash and terror. “”Da sea! Mar’i, da sea da only escape! Go go!” he shouted, while pointing hard toward the horizon and shooing forward with urgent hands. They were separated by the panicked crowd. She saw her mother, her beautiful, singing mother, and her brothers Akassh and Larek trapped behind a falling, burning bough. Their screams cut through the cacophony, a sound that would haunt her forever.
In that horrific moment, her father made the choice for her. He saw the path to the hidden cove, their last chance. He shoved her hard towards it, pushing Onare into her arms. “GO!” he roared, his voice breaking. “Tek ’im! Go GO!” Before she could protest, before she could even process, he turned back with a desperate cry and ran, not away from the inferno, but into it, trying to reach his wife and other sons.
She watched him disappear into the smoke and fire, a futile, heroic silhouette against the apocalypse.
She ran. She held Onare’s hand so tight she thought she might break it, the little boy stumbling and crying beside her. The heat singed her hair and skin. She ran until her lungs burned and her legs gave out. She reached the cove, launched the small fishing boat alone, and shoved off into the churning, ash-choked sea.
But the sea was not a savior that night. The initial eruption had triggered a tsunami. A monstrous wave, born of the mountain’s rage, rose up behind them. It wasn’t water; it was a slurry of ash, debris, and the remains of her village. It hit their tiny boat like a fist from a god. She was thrown into the churning maelstrom. She held onto Onare with all her strength, but the sea was a monster. She felt his small hand slip from hers.
She screamed his name—”ONARE!”—but the roar of the mountain and the ocean swallowed the sound.
When she finally washed ashore on a rocky outcrop miles from home, she was alone. Truly, completely alone. She was the last of them. The only survivor of a family, a village, a way of life, erased in a single, terrible night during the Nuku Hiva festival.
Every year, when the twin moons are full, she doesn’t celebrate. She mourns the father who sacrificed himself, the mother who was taken, the brothers who danced with her, and the little boy whose hand she couldn’t hold on to.
