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Once, not too long ago - shortly after she left her girlhood behind to be included as a woman of the tribe - her grandmother spoke up from their basket weaving to warn her about a certain type of boy. This boy was an arrogant boy, a boastful boy. Oftentimes, he is also a beautiful boy, Tala had said with a sage sort of knowing that had then been above Moana's ability, or even desire, to comprehend. This boy, though he is a loud boy, speaks out to drown his own inner voice. Only when you are quiet as to his bold words can you hear what such a boy truly means to say.
. . . like breaking open a cocoanut shell to find the soft, sweet meat within, Tala had continued with a sly sort of grin, but Moana had quite enough of her grandmother's advice by then, thankyouverymuch. She had ended the conversation with a dramatic roll of her eyes, adamantly declaring that she had no inclination to listen any boy, no matter how quiet or loud he was. Pausing from where she had been weaving her own basket, Sina had - blessedly - come to her daughter's aid to say that she did not need such advice, not yet. In answer, Tala's eyes had only glittered knowingly to say, Once was, you too had the ears for such a loud boy, did you not? I remember that, in his day, my son was quite -
- but Moana had then left the hut behind without looking back, little able to picture her father as one of the lanky, headstrong creatures who were the boys her age stumbling their way to manhood. No . . . no.
No, she had said then. Yet, her grandmother's voice now came back to tickle her ear like the ocean humming from the inside of a conch shell. A loud boy; a boastful boy; a vain boy, Tala had whispered. Be careful of this type of boy, child.
Now . . . Moana was not completely certain if the abandoned-at-birth-and-raised-by-the-gods-and-thus-blessed-with-their-powers . . . demigod . . . creature . . . man? counted as one of the loud boys her grandmother spoke of. Maui seemed solid enough to her senses; he certainly appear to be a tangible part of their world; he felt as real as she herself was. Though he could shed his shape as quickly as the ocean changed her mood, he was a being of flesh and bone . . . he lived, he breathed . . . he could bleed, couldn't he? Maui may have lacked the monstrous aura she had felt from Tamatoa, but neither did he emanate the awesome power and divinity of Te Fiti. So, where did that leave him . . . where did that leave her?
“Oh, now I see, I know where we are - this is where I defeated the fire spirit Mahauike – yeah, there used to be an island here, right here. Actually, it's still here . . . in pieces, on the ocean floor. I know, I know – there's no need to look so impressed. It was all in a day's work – an angry divine entity spitting fire plus your tiny wooden ships? Not good bedfellows, clearly. So . . . you're welcome; it's okay, your ancestors already thanked me.”
Or, Moana reflected drolly, perhaps she was over thinking this: her grandmother knew exactly what she was talking about. Now, Moana only wished that she had listened, rather than assuming that there would be time left to them to speak of such things later . . . always later.
As ever, she swallowed around the lump in her throat that thoughts of her grandmother still produced. Her eyes stung as she looked out over the waves to the ring-like formation peaking up from the blue expanse of the ocean. There she focused her gaze, and through an all too familiar force of will, pushed her grief aside.
Her people had been sailing for twenty turns of the sun, and though they had not found an island to stake their mark on, they had happened upon a decently sized atoll. There, within its borders of sand and coral was a glittering blue-green lagoon, with its shallow waters no doubt overfilling with fish and octopus and crab. On the leeward facing side of the atoll, there was a small cay with glittering white sand and gently swaying palm trees – enough so that there were happy exclamations from her tribe at the thought of what foraging there was to be gleaned from the unexpected oasis.
They had packed supplies enough to last them many moons on the water – by which then they would have hopefully found where they were going. Yet this was a bountiful sign, a fortuitous sign. Finding the atoll caused a happy reverberation in her heart, sounding in time with the sea-voice that always sang there, and Moana knew that they were on the right path.
Upon making it to the shore of the cay, her people immediately leapt into a productive whirl of motion. Along with the ever cherished cocoanut trees, lau'ie palms were found, and the women wasted no time in harvesting the leaves for their mat weaving, while children were sent about to collect flax and kukui nuts and eggs from the low nesting waterfowl. Seeing the unexpected surplus that was available to them, her father was quickly persuaded to declare that they would stay for the night – where they would build fires and sing their songs of thanks and sleep on the sand before departing again with the dawn. When the newly bountiful sea turned its yield so easily into their seeking hands, Moana was the first to suggest a feast. Almost immediately the men set about building an imu oven in the ground to cook their taro and breadfruits, along with whatever bounty they were gifted from the ocean.
Throughout the day, there was not an unsmiling face amongst them; there was not a hand to be found who was not hard at work, or lacking in help from the collective good of all. The young and old; the men, women, and -
“ - that's it, Heihei! Now, just a little to the left – no, no, you are not supposed to try and swallow it, you ridiculous bird - ”
- her head snapped around from where she had been stringing her fishing hook to see where Maui had commandeered a mat and was happily sunning himself on the sand. He was trying to get the somewhat . . . challenged rooster to hold a palm frond over him, to keep the sun out of his eyes while he enjoyed the benefits of the warming rays otherwise. His results were mixed, drawing a sigh from Moana to see; a long-suffering sigh.
Upon first meeting Maui on his island, it had taken her mere moments to realize that he thrived on the adoration and accolades of others. As such, he hadn't been able to stay away from the world of men for long. Shortly after her arrival home, she had first seen his hawk-form following the tribe's decision to take to the open ocean in search of new land again. It hadn't taken Maui long to give up on merely circling the village from the sky in favor of coming down and actually helping them take their ships out for the first time. The awe and praise he received had filled him like a sail on the wind, and he had been slow to stray from their sides ever since. Every time he took to the air or the water – especially when he was gone for days at a time – Moana was left to wonder if they had seen him for the last time. Yet, just like the tide, he kept coming back. She had yet to figure out precisely why he was slow to leave them, and she was ever unable to get him to sit down and actually talk about what he wanted from the future - so much so that she had given up on trying entirely.
Plans? Lists? Goals? All are mortal worries, princess, Maui had waved his hand dismissively to say when asked. They are necessities born by your sadly short lifespans, and, thus, not for the likes of Maui to worry about.
Moana had poked him in the stomach with her oar for that comment. Even the Mini Maui had folded his arms and shook his head in disappointment for his host's unthinking flippancy.
Maui had plucked the offending oar from her hands, no matter how doggedly she'd tried to hold on - see: demigod strength - and had continued to hold it over her head until she bid a wave to come up over the boat and douse him. Twice.
He had not tried to take the oar from her again – much to the muffled amusement of the rest of her tribe, from the crinkling concern in her father's eyes, to the small, secret smile ever tucked away in the corners of her mother's expression. Tui had tried to ask her, more than once, about Maui's plan and purpose with their people, but had given up when he got little more than grumbles from his daughter whenever the conversation arose. Who are we to question the will of the gods? he had finally sighed along with her, and that was that.
So, for the time being, their association simply was what it was.
And, what it was, then and there, was maddening. For everyone else to work while Maui lounged about – and would, undoubtedly, eat twice his weight from their hard earned feast later . . .
. . . well, she was not going to stand for it. Not even in the slightest.
Summoning her best Moana: Future-Chief-of-the-Motunui face, she stalked across the sand to the errant immortal, prepared for battle.
“You, chicken, are about to be traded in for the pig as Maui's favorite familiar,” Maui was busy trying to teach Heihei the finer points of palm frond shading. If he was aware of her arrival, he ignored her in favor of threatening the rooster, “See there? That's an oven they are building, to cook dinner in. Yeah, I would be worried about my job security if I were you.”
“I don't know,” Moana pitched her voice doubtfully. She just barely refrained from tapping her foot on the sand. “Only a starving man would eat Heihei . . . I mean, who would risk it otherwise?”
Maui's great exhale of air sounded like the heat escaping from one of the aforementioned imu ovens – but he could not argue her point. Instead, he raised cross eyes up to her, and said, “Unless you are planning to stand there and take up the privilege of shading me yourself, you can move on, princess. I'm busy.”
Knowing that her protesting the loathed nickname would only ensure that he continued to use it, she rolled her eyes and said, “No, you are not busy. That's half the problem, Maui.”
“From the tone of your voice, I understand that you are . . . angry?” Maui took a moment to puzzle out his reasoning aloud. He frowned up at her, truly ignorant of any reason for her ire.
“No, I'm frustrated,” Moana corrected. “I'm disappointed, even. I'm not angry.” . . . yet.
“Um . . . I don't understand,” Maui sat up, perhaps understanding that he was not going to be able to wave his hand and ignore whatever was on her mind. His brow furrowed, and he said, “You're seeing the world, chasing the horizon, following your heart, yada yada yada – what more can you want than your dreams?” His patronizing tone touched on that raw nerve within her that was stamped: Maui! like a big glaring red target.
“Exactly, you don't understand,” Moana sighed to say. Unfurling her hand, she let a fishing line and small bone hook fall to plop in the sand next to his mat. She then turned, and encompassed the rest of her people with a gesture – all busy and industrious, each and every last one of them.
Maui cast dubious eyes down at the fishing line, and then up at her. Down he looked, and up again.
She saw the exact moment where understanding dawned.
“Uh, yeah . . . no,” he gave a mirthless chuckle to say. “I don't know who you think you are, but - ”
“ - I am a leader of my people,” Moana did not let him finish before interrupting. “And I'm telling you that as long as you reside with the Motunui, you will act like one, and do your part.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. You see, I've already paid my dues to mankind. The sun? The sky? The tides? The blasted cocoanuts you are all so fond of?” Maui jabbed a finger at the palm trees. “Yep, that check's been cashed and spent. And, as for your tribe – do you or do you not remember a trifle little journey to return a certain heart and spare a certain island - ”
“ - helping others is not a quota you can fill and then you're done,” Moana disagreed. “It doesn't work that way.”
Maui blinked up at her owlishly. “It . . . doesn't?”
In answer, she only glared, and let her expression speak for itself. He was not Heihei, she knew that he knew better, even if he acted like he did not. But, Moana also knew that she would not get anywhere matching words with him – he would just run around her in circles before doing what he wanted, how he wanted, anyway. It took years for the stone of the sea cliffs to give in to the insistent battering of the waves, no matter how powerful they were . . . and Maui's thick skull was twice as hard as any rock.
So, without speaking she simply bent down, picked up her line and hook, and walked away. Without looking back, she followed the edge of the cay as it thinned to a sandy bank above the reef, her feet playing with the line where the surf met the sand all the while. All around her other fishermen were similarly engaged; out in the lagoon there were spear fishermen trying their luck in the shallows, while further out in canoes there were basket fishermen carrying in squid and eel and crustaceans. She waved to them as she breathed in deep of the salty sweet sea air. Feeling for the pulse of the ocean in her heart, she inwardly searched for and knew when she chose the perfect spot on the sand. There.
Distantly, she was aware of Maui following her – he couldn't let go a conversation he did not feel he had won, after all – but she ignored him as he loomed over her like a vengeful shadow. Instead, she strung her line, and attached her cowrie shell lure – a precious heirloom that had been passed down in her family from generation to generation. She had bait already prepared and ready to attach – a roasted squid ink sack with seaweed and crab meat within – and she nimbly hooked the tasty prize before casting her line. The sinker sank, and she settled in to patiently wait for results.
“Okay, what is wrong with you?” Maui finally pressed the issue. “I get it, you're upset with me -”
“ - oh, it's nothing, really,” Moana brushed him off. “It was silly of me to expect anything else of you.”
“Well,” he tried to nonchalantly drawl over his own mounting frustration, “if you feel guilty about your disrespect – I mean, normally mortals are falling over themselves, building temples and offering sacrifices to gain my favor, but you -”
“ - oh, no,” Moana shrugged again. “I understand that as a semi-god -”
“ - demi-god - ”
“ - you must fear what it will look like if a mere human girl catches more fish than you. You want to save face, I understand.”
“Oh, I see what you are trying to do. You're cute if you think it's gonna work.”
“I mean,” Moana continued blithely, as if he had not spoken at all, “you must have been fishing for hundreds – thousands of years before I was even born. Perhaps you're afraid that our little human hearts would be overwhelmed by your talents?”
“Nice try, curly, but I invented the art of goading people into doing what I wanted before your people were even a thought. Mischief-maker and trickster? Yeah, that's me. Besides, the last time I seriously fished, I brought up islands with my hook . . . just saying. So . . . you're welcome.”
Gotcha. “Islands, you say? Well then, snaring a kumu or two shouldn't be all that difficult for you,” she rolled her shoulders to say. “Really – you eat as much as ten of our people, you may as well help provide for what you take.
“ - because the sun, the moon, the tides wasn't enough for you, right?”
He was repeating his arguments; she could all but taste her victory. “That,” she pointed out calmly, “was then - ”
“ - and that's not even to mention teaching your poor little tribe how to get their boats out onto the water in the first place. Seriously, you took away all of the fun of just watching. I had to help; you people were embarrassing the art of wayfinding with your thousand year hiatus.”
She sniffed in a breath through her nose, but refused to let him see how his words struck their mark. On his chest, the Mini Maui slapped one bulging pectoral muscle, and Maui frowned down at the living piece of art. “You,” he growled, flicking the tattoo so that it flew somewhere over his shoulder, “can stay out of this.”
Moana sighed through her nose, and abandoned her clever arguments for outrightly cajoling. “Oh, come on, if you dipped your hook in, just once even - ”
“ - the great Manaiakalani is not to be used for such a trivial task as fishing!” he was incensed at merely the idea. “You fish out islands with this hook, baby, not . . . not . . .”
"Kumu?" Moana piped hopefully.
“No! Not kumu,” Maui all but thundered. “My hook is for divine and heroic deeds, not for snatching up goatfish.”
Cautiously creeping out from underneath Maui's hair, the Mini Maui made a waving motion to attract her attention without alerting his host. In his hand, he held a small fishing hook – a normal one, she was curious to see. He mimed casting it, only for the line to spin around and tangle around his body. He tripped, precariously rocking his painted canoe on a rolling bed of waves. The ink shifted, next telling the tale of a group of beings surrounding him on the shore. Each one them, she noticed, carried heaping baskets of fish . . . while his basket was empty . . . empty, and they were all laughing . . .
Oh . . . it wasn't that he refused to fish . . . he quite simply could not fish.
“You . . . you can't fish, can't you?” Moana finally understood. The words dropped slowly from her tongue at first, and then with more confidence once the Mini Maui shrugged apologetically as he returned to his place.
“What?” Maui huffed indignantly. “Of course I can fish. What kind of ocean deity would I be if I couldn't fish? Me, not fish? Please.” He glared down at his now deceptively quiet tattoo and mouthed the word, “Traitor.”
“ . . . no,” Moana said softly. Understanding had cooled her ire, and she felt peace fill her – as soft and gentle as the surf that rushed to and fro over her feet. “I don't think that you can.”
The gods . . . they were for great and awesome deeds, were they not? What did they have to do with the every day to day . . . with the ordinary . . . with the simple most tasks of living? Who would have taught him how to fish? she wondered . . . who would have ever thought that he even needed to be taught, in the first place?
“My grandfather taught me how to fish, just as he taught my father,” Moana looked out over the water, to where her line patiently bobbed in the waves. “He was a great chief, and he loved the water as much as my Grandmother Tala did. My cowrie shell lures? He carved them himself.” Pride filled her voice as she spoke – pride for her people and her heritage, for her great whakapapa. Maui, for all that he had such strength, such gifts, such mana . . . he did not belong to any one people, but to all the people of the ocean. He had no heritage except for that which he gave; stories were told of him . . . he had no stories of his own people, his own history to tell.
What a great burden of responsibility his shoulders bore, she thought sadly . . . what a lonely island his soul lived on.
“If you want,” Moana offered, reaching into her fishing satchel to bring out another delicately carved fishing hook and lure, “you can use one of mine? I can teach you.”
Maui looked down at the fishing hook, and then up at her. She saw where his look turned from doubtful consideration to true contemplation. He wanted to accept her offer, she knew; he was tempted. Only his pride stood in the way.
“I promise not to laugh,” Moana knew what last she had to say. “Cross my heart – honest.”
Maui narrowed his eyes at her, and on his chest the Mini Maui batted his lashes hopefully. He sighed deeply from his lungs and finally gave in. “Alright, alright, girly - you've convinced me. If only so I don't have to hear you whine about it anymore, okay?”
“Okay!” Moana let him bluster without challenge – a loud boy, she heard her grandmother's voice whisper in her mind, and thought that she then understood.
“Now,” she handed him the second bamboo pole she had brought, “this is how you string your line.”
She reeled her own line back in so that she could show him the basic mechanics of the art. The small, elegantly carved bone hook was nearly swallowed in his massive hands, but his fingers were surprisingly nimble for such a delicate task. Though he was clumsy at first, he caught on quickly; he was as fast a student as any she had ever seen, and he was soon casting as easily as if he had been fishing for years.
Before long, they had both waded out into the shallow slope of the cay, before the sandy ledge plummeted off to form the reef face. Through the depths of the clear blue water, fish of all shapes and sizes played with the current through the colorful coral; kumu, she could almost taste, seeing a tell-tale flash of silver and yellow scales, and hoped that their venture would prove successful.
After some time had passed – time in which Moana was happily lulled by the waves and the sea-wind, Maui sighed impatiently and complained, “This is taking forever.”
“Fishing requires patience,” Moana agreed. “And strength, too," she knew she had to whet his interest for more. "You have not yet seen the men wrestle sharks to shore. Or,” her soul gave a pang to say, “how many spearmen it takes to subdue a manta ray. But, we do not touch them now; they are sacred creatures to us.”
“Shark wrestling, you say?” Maui's eyes all but glittered at the thought. “Now that's a sport I can get behind.”
“You need to start with your basics, young grasshopper,” Moana had to fight to tuck her grin away. “First, lets see you catch a fish.”
“A fish? Bah!” Maui retorted. “I'm going to catch a dozen fish; watch me, I'm going to string up Pimoe, the king of fish himself! And then - ”
Moana felt a twinge on her line. The strand of olona fibers twanged in the air, causing a ripple on the surface of the water. Bubbles spiraled from the deep and popped in the open air, warning of a big fish caught below. She could feel the sudden strain in her pole; the muscles of her back and shoulders burned from the effort of holding the line steady. Steady! she chanted to herself.
“Now,” Moana turned to her companion to instruct, “the key is to hold the line steady - very steady. Otherwise, you might lose your fish and prove all of your hard work for nothing. Slowly, and methodically, reel in your line . . . ”
“Like this?” Maui deferred to her expertise, holding up his own pole to mimic her motions, even though he had nothing caught himself.
Moana, simply happy that he was asking for her opinion - for her advice - nodded. “Yes!” she enthused. “Just like that! Now, I'm almost . . .” She saw a flash of purple and silver, and knew that her lure was close to surfacing. Which meant . . .
She gave a mighty heave, and prepared to see -
- nothing, she puzzled. Her hook was empty as it broke the water's surface. The sudden loss of resistance had her stumbling back, stomping through the surf to regain her balance. There was nothing there. Her hook was empty.
But . . . she had been so certain that she felt . . .
Stunned by her loss, she turned to Maui -
- to see a massive opakapaka hanging from his line. Pink snapper, though a much coveted delicacy to her people, were normally deeper dwellers than line fishing from shore would allow them to snare; boats were required to catch them. She blinked in disbelief at him, shocked that he had caught such a fish while she had lost -
- wait a second . . . for him to catch a fish . . . just as she had lost her fish?
No, her brain tripped over the conclusion she was uncomfortably reaching. He wouldn't. Oh, but he would, though. It took her but a second to judge and find him guilty. But . . . but how?
“T-that's my fish,” Moana sputtered to say. “You crossed the lines somehow!”
“Now who's the sore loser – er, lesser fisherman, I should say?” Maui did not even give her the courtesy of looking her way. Instead, he held his fish – her fish! – up to eye level to critically inspect the catch. “Oh,” he sounded pleased, “this will feed an entire family, I'd say – at the very least. Now who's not helping the tribe, Moana? That's right, not me.”
“You . . . you are a cheater!”
“Now that's a very strong choice of words, princess,” Maui's eyes flashed to say. He finally deigned to spare her half a glance. “I prefer the term . . . trickster, myself.” She wanted to wipe the smug little smile from his face – with her fist, preferably.
“Somehow, you crossed the lines," Moana continued to accuse on a growl. She refused to let the subject go.
“Oh?” Maui seemed vaguely baffled by her claim. “How do you suggest I did that? Because, believe me, I'd love to take credit for it.”
She . . . she couldn't explain it, Moana dumbly realized. And, yet . . . she knew.
On his chest, the Mini Maui simply shrugged for the strange turn of events, perplexed. Moana glared at them both before throwing her hands up in disgust.
Moodily, she turned her back on him and stomped a ways down the sand in her pique. She felt the ocean whistle and coo around her calves as if to sooth her, and she reached down to run an absent hand through the water. She was fine, she absently assured the ocean - she just wouldn't let herself be fooled by his fake smile and oily charm twice.
“Aw, come on, curly. It was just a bit of fun,” Maui, inexplicably, felt the need to follow her. She kept her gaze trained on the horizon as she cast her line again. “Can't you take a joke?”
“So, you admit that you stole my fish?” Moana didn't bother looking up from the ocean to say.
“There's this thing called the fifth,” Maui pressed his mouth together to answer after a long moment of pregnant contemplation. “I'm taking it.”
She snorted. How typical.
A minute of silence passed, and Maui cast his line again. This time he seemed content to wait patiently as the line swayed in the current. She frowned as the lull between them grew, trying to order her thoughts into some semblance of coherency. Further out from them, she watched as the fishermen drew in a basket full of lobster; from the seashore she could smell the smoke rising from the imu ovens. Her stomach rumbled, but she was not done with the ocean yet; she would not be until she did her part to feed her tribe.
“Soooo . . .” Maui finally drawled. His words held an uncomfortable undertone – a note of feeling that she would call sheepish if she didn't know him any better. “Kumu, you were saying you wanted me to catch? That's your favorite, right?”
She blinked; for a moment, his words did not register. Was Maui . . . Demigod of the Sea and Sky, asking her something personal . . . about herself? It took her a moment, and then, finally, she decided to take the olive branch for what it was. “Yeah . . . one of them, at least,” she answered cautiously.
“Alright then,” Maui critically stared at the birds diving down into the water – clearly trying to angle his line with the school they were undoubtedly feeding upon. “One kumu, coming right up.”
Moana shook her head, and felt an unwitting smile tug on her mouth in answer to his earnestness. Alright then: apology accepted.
And, with the soft sort of silence still draped between them, she had to seize her opprotunity and ask . . . “Maui, what are you still doing here?”
“Me?” She could not immediately tell if it was purposely trying to be obtuse when he answered, “I'm trying to catch you a lousy fish. I . . . I don't like it when you . . . when I . . . ” but he did not finish his sentence, and she watched his hands fiddle awkwardly with his bamboo pole. He seemed bewildered by his own admonition; on his chest, the Mini Maui was nudging him, clearly wanting him to say more. Maui did not even spare the sentient tattoo a glance, however, not even to glare. That in of itself was telling, Moana thought.
“Don't you have demigodly duties awaiting you . . . out there?” Moana gestured vaguely over the ocean – encompassing the sky and sea and horizon. How big it was, she thought; how much of it was out there just waiting for him . . . for her.
“Well . . . it's my job to take care of mankind,” Maui finally said. He tugged a bit absently on his line in a gesture betraying his discomfort. “The gods know they aren't going to be moved to do so . . . and yet, for a thousand years, I think you guys did okay on your own . . . without me.”
“Well, that depends on what you consider okay,” Moana answered slowly, a pain twisting her heart for the tone of his words. “We . . . we gave up exploring the sea for all that time. We couldn't cross the ocean for the odds stacked against us. Now . . .” Now the horizons were open to them; now the waves were theirs to explore. He had done that for them, he and she, in her part . . . As always, that knowledge was a warm sort of knowing, deep inside her – an ember set to warm her even through the coolest of nights.
She . . . she could not understand: did he not see the beauty, the glory in what they had accomplished?
Yet, and perhaps this was the crux of the matter . . . for, as much as she looked forward to where she was going, she could ever close her eyes and remember the home she had left behind her. For sixteen years all she had seemingly done was create memories to sustain her for the day she would eventually journey beyond the reef. Even now she could picture the 'alae 'ula birds in the taro fields, gracefully fluttering about on their black wings, with fire red feathers burning from their faces . . . She could remember standing on the seashore and reciting the names of her ancestors with her grandmother, feeling the power of her heritage resonate in her heart and in her blood with the tide . . . She could recall beating the tapa with the other women, laughing and gossiping as they worked their art . . . She could remembered how her tribe had praised her the day her malu was completed upon her coming of age ceremony, just as she could remember dancing the old dances in the firelight with dozens of voices lifting to the sky alongside the smoke . . . Those were the memories she could ever return to when her heart felt uncertain and forlorn; those were the memories she could build upon as she stacked years onto her life like stones on top of stones.
Maui . . . what were his memories? It was true: a person could not find their way forward without knowing from which they came – and she was proud of where she came, so very proud. And yet, for him . . .
Though grand, a childhood spent with the gods . . . was there fresh pork pulled from the fire . . . were there stories told by the elder ones . . . was there dancing and singing, with a mother's nurturing presence and the strong hand of a father . . .
. . . what did he have to reflect on for his great years? she pressed her lips into a thin line to consider. What did he want from the years to come now?
“I am glad that you're here,” Moana's conclusion to the frenetic spin of her thoughts was easy. She spoke that simple truth honestly and from her heart. “I hope that you stay for as long as you want to stay.”
It's okay to need someone, she wanted to assure him. She thought that thought so clearly, but she could not quite find the speech with which to share it – it was like the little ocean voice inside of her, always so loud, but oftentimes without words to give it a conscious shape. It has to be okay to need someone – to draw strength and courage and love from another soul, that same unspoken thought spun, building upon itself like a wave rushing for the shore, just like I think I need . . .
Maui was looking at her strangely, she finally glanced over to see – with his brow furrowed and his mouth a thin line as he sorted his way through a complex thought of his own. He looked at her, she thought, as if he did not quite know what to make of her. It was a look that had grown over time, from amusement over her stubborn impudence in the beginning, to that look he had hurled at her when she confronted Te Kā - all nauseous fear and heartbreaking dread, to, now . . . this . . .
But, all he finally said aloud was: “How typical: you give a girl an inch, and then she's all clingy and attached.” He reached over, and condescendingly patted the top of her head. “Yeah, yeah - right back at you, curly.”
A loud boy, she heard Tala's voice whisper through her mind, and Moana then knew exactly what her grandmother had tried to say. This boy may also be a vain boy . . . a beautiful boy . . .
But she was distracted from her thoughts by a familiar twang sound on the air. The line . . . there was a fish!
It was not her line . . . Maui's line had gone taut, she looked to see. He had actually caught something! He – himself.
“I . . . I think I actually caught something,” Maui unerringly echoed her thoughts to say aloud. He sounded overwhelmed and exhilarated all at once, before he caught himself and modulated his voice to more familiarly boast, “I mean, of course I caught something: one great white shark, or Pimoe the Fish-king coming right up!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah - you're a big strong demigod,” Moana reached up to pat his shoulder as condescendingly as he had patted her head. “Only, see that you don't lose it coming in.”
“Now what do I do?” his voice was once again overly quick with nerves to ask her. “I mean, I know what to do, I - I just . . . it's only -”
“Maui,” Moana gently interrupted him, “just be steady. It's not strength that makes a good fisherman, but determination, and poise.”
“Determination,” Maui repeated under his breath like a mantra, “Poise. Yeah, I've got plenty of that.”
His face screwed up in an intense mask of concentration; his great, hulking form was almost comically stiff as he measured out his strength to reel the fish in – an impressive, flapping thing, even she could see. The water bubbled and splashed as the desperate fish thrashed about, fighting for freedom, before -
- a relatively small and terribly ugly fish broke the ocean surface. With its lumpy body and bulging lips, the poor fish was a swollen, unappealing creature; even its coloring was muted and rough, with its scales patterned to help it blend in with the rocky bottom of the reef below. A hogo, she recognized – and a small one, at that. It was a far cry from Pimoe the Fish-king, and yet . . .
“I've caught a fish!” Maui all but crowed to the sky. “I, the great Maui, have mastered the ocean and drawn forth from its bounty this . . . this . . .” he frowned down at the homely little fish flopping in the sand, and puzzled to ask, “What is that thing, anyway?”
“Hogo,” Moana helpfully provided. “A scorpionfish. But it's tasty for being so . . . so . . . ”
“Ugly?" Maui supplied, making a face to say. “But, a fish is still a fish,” his face brightened. “I have caught a fish! A - ”
“ - a second fish, you mean to say,” Moana cut in wryly. “Other than your last one?” She was still not ready to let that go.
“Yeah, whatever,” Maui waved a hand dismissively. “I've provided for your tribe, what do you think of that, Moana?”
Moana.
Her ears burned with recognition for the syllables . . . Moana. He said her name.
Dumbfounded, she stood still in the water, all but gaping at him. Curly . . . girl . . . princess, all were nicknames she heard, all too often, but . . . Moana?
She could not stop the smile that split her face in answer to the recognition, and it took Maui a moment to pause from his dancing and jumping about in the shallow water to understand his slip. Moana.
“Don't get used to it,” he warned after rightfully interpreting her expression. He pointed a thick finger at her to insist, “It's not going to become a thing, so don't make anything more of this than it is.”
“Oh, I wouldn't,” Moana assured as she drew her own line from the water. The fishermen were preparing to turn in with their spoils, and it was time for them to do the same.
“I mean, I said your name – big deal,” Maui continued, clearly feeling that he had to explain his curious burst affection. It was obviously a lapse, after all.
“I understand,” Moana hummed in the back of her throat. She unstrung their poles, and packed up her satchel again.
“Do you . . . do you really?” Maui eyed her suspiciously. He was not convinced.
“Of course . . . Maui,” her eyes twinkled, and she darted out of the water before she could see his expression. She heard his sigh, however, and the water splashed and sloshed as he followed her. Above them, the sun was tipping from its high cradle in the sky, and flecks of gold danced over the ocean as the evening hour approached them. The air smelled richly of cooking smoke and sea salt and jungle musk. She could hear the low chatter of her people, hard at work preparing the feast; the children laughed as they chased each other in the sea-surf. The tide was an ever constant hum in the back of her mind; the waves were a constant drum line to its song. She breathed in deeply, and felt contentment fill her lungs.
Maui was grumbling under his breath, but he still carried his small, ugly hogo fish like a boast. He was proudly displaying his catch for all to see - all but strutting as if he was a parrot in the middle of his courting dance. And, there on the hand still carrying the olona line. . .
“Maui! Look at that - ” stunned, she reached over, awed by the markings she noticed as they newly appeared. Maui was too bewildered to even try and stop her; he just looked down at his hand as if it was a foreign appendage and blinked. “Huh,” was all that he could say as he tried to snatch his hand away from her curious fingers to better see himself.
But Moana held on tightly. She had the proof of it in her hand – well, in his hand, more accurately . . . she was not the only one reading some sort of significance into that day. For there, plain to see, was the newly inked inked depiction of a fishing line. The thread wrapped around his entire hand several times, and there at the end of the line, nestled in the cup of his massive palm, was a hook and cowrie shell lure . . . with a very ugly little fish painted on his skin. There it was for all time to stay, for anyone with eyes to see . . .
“Well . . . that's just . . .” Maui glared at the newly sprung tattoo. “That's just undemigodly in the extreme! Really?!" He glared at the Mini Maui as if the new marking was his fault, but the sentient tattoo just shrugged before clapping happily. He liked it, Moana thought.
“I don't know,” Moana was not so quick to judge the tattoo as wanting. “I kinda like it. It's . . .” personal, she thought, even more so than his raising the sky or hooking the islands from the sea. Meaningful. Endearing. “It's a victory,” she said instead. “I'm glad you have something to remember today by.”
“A victory?" Maui repeated dubiously. “Well, I suppose it is, but - ”
“ - it is a victory,” Moana declared, leaving no room for him to disagree. She threaded her much smaller arm through his own as they headed back to the assembled throng of people preparing the feast, and he did not push her away. Instead, he matched his stride to hers - unconsciously so, she thought, but he still did so nonetheless. “After all," she continued, "that's what a demigod is supposed to do, right? He takes care of mankind.”
“Why . . . yes. Yes he does,” even so, Maui was slow to agree with her. She glanced up to look, and saw a blush reddening the already deeply tanned shade of his cheeks. For a moment, he could not quite meet her eyes.
As they approached the gathering, she saw her parents look up to greet them. Her father raised a bemused brow as he took in the tiny hogo fish caught on Maui's line, while her mother . . . there was a small, secret look on Sina's face before she turned away, and dragged her still staring husband with her before his growing gape could turn into a suspicious glare. Sina's expression was not unlike one of Grandmother Tala's looks – full of knowing, and, for Moana, endless guessing.
That, she knew with a sigh, would undoubtedly be an uncomfortable conversation to be had later. And, yet, for then: “I'm glad you're here, Maui,” Moana again whispered as the setting sunlight spilled over her their shoulders, haloing them with gold. “I'm glad that you decided to stay . . . for however long you continue to stay.”
Moana did not expect him to say anything in answer to her confession. She was simply happy to leave her own heart floating on the air between them; she did not need him to acknowledge her gift of words. And, yet . . .
“Yeah,” Maui said softly – so softly that she had to strain her senses to hear. At first, she could not tell his voice from the ever present hum of the ocean in her ears. “Me too, kid . . . I'm glad too.”
And so, the loud boy finally whispered . . . and Moana heard him.
She could not stop herself from widely grinning as she tugged him down the beach, feeling as if she floated weightlessly in the ocean rather than walking straight upright on solid ground. Their stop that day was just a pause in a long journey - a moment's rest for weary travelers, Moana knew - and yet, what an oasis it had truly proved to be.