Island's End by Padma Venkatraman Page A

fooled into thinking the brightly colored leaves are flower petals. If they try to land on the pitcher-shaped leaf and sip the juice inside, they slide down and drown in the juice instead. The plant then eats the insects just as an animal might.”
    “How do you know so much about this plant, Lah-ame? Have you seen it in the Otherworld, too?”
    “It grows in this world, Uido.”
    “But where, Lah-ame? I have never heard anyone speak of it, nor have I seen it myself.”
    “One day you will,” Lah-ame says. “If Biliku-waye hung her web on it in your vision, it means this is your special medicine plant. You must seek out this plant and bring its healing waters back to our people.”
    “When?” I ask, eager to see it again.
    “Close to the end of your training.” Lah-ame lays his hand on my shoulder as if he is trying to weigh down my curiosity. “That test is still far away, Uido.”
    I ask no more questions because I sense he will not answer them. But Lah-ame’s refusal to speak about the last part of my training only makes me think all the more about the strange plant until I fall asleep that night.

14

    F rom that day on I have hardly any time to wonder about where the insect-eating plant grows or how I must find it someday. Lah-ame keeps me busy learning new skills. I barely even have time to miss being with the rest of the tribe.
    It is only at night, lying on my sleeping platform while rain slides off the banana-leaf roof, that I can think of them. I sometimes dream of being back in my tribe’s circle of warmth. But if I see or hear the strangers’ flying boats during the day, I have a terrible dream at night—of Ragavan visiting the island, cutting down our jungle and taking Tawai away in his boat. Yet when I wake, the steady downpour and the hhhhffff of the stormy wind comforts and reminds me that the strangers cannot land on our shores in the rainy season.
    Most mornings Lah-ame and I gather plant and animal parts that have healing powers. Then we return to the shelter of our banana-leaf huts and roast or squeeze or grind what we collected to make medicines. I enjoy feeling the growing weight of my lizard-skin pouch.
    In the evenings, after our meal of berries and fruit and nuts, my stomach often growls with hunger. But in the darkness, Lah-ame teaches me many things. I learn how to find and chase away the lau that cause disease by entering a person’s body and capturing the spirit; the chants an oko-jumu must say to thank the spirits for fire, good weather, and successful hunts; the rituals that celebrate birth and marriage; and all the tales of our people. He guides me farther and farther into the Otherworld with his rattle and drum. But although I learn to journey there with ease, I never again see the insect-eating plant.
    Then, four moons after we parted from the rest of the tribe, Lah-ame gives me my first test. At dawn he begins to ask me about all he has taught. My voice does not falter once and I answer every question correctly. When the sky beyond the mat of branches above us grows dark, Lah-ame finally stops.
    “I am pleased by how quickly you learned about healing,” he says. “Tomorrow I will teach you how to make fire.”
    His praise lifts my spirit like a breeze, until I feel like I am floating above the treetops with joy. That night I dream of kindling a great orange blaze while my entire tribe watches in admiration.
    The next day, Lah-ame brings me his fire tools. He places a trunk with a small hollow carved in the middle on the ground, under the shelter of his roof. I kneel beside it, as I have seen him do, and place his long fire stick inside the hollow. He helps me run the vine rope across the fire stick and shows me how to balance the stick inside the hollow while churning it with the vine rope. I am surprised how difficult it is. My palms redden and blister as the rope cuts into my skin. It takes me eight days to build up the skill and strength to move the rope fast enough