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east, where the sun rises, to the sea god. He’s ever-present out here; we can feel him all around, and we know how important it is not to neglect him. I hope he is wearing his best cloak in these cold waters.
    The dogs whine and lick their chops as the propitiations are made to the sea god. Fishpuke is looking hungry too. But he must not eat yet. He is under heavy tabu while he is there at that oar. We distribute the meal to the rest. One of the younger girls approaches the navigator and feeds him portions directly into his mouth with a fork.
    We tend to the animals and plants we are bringing with us. We make sure that the seed we have brought is not being ruined by the salt water. We feed the chickens on shredded coconut and the dogs on dinner scraps. There is also a rat on board, and one of the men is trying to catch it. Each time he spots it, he goes after it with his club, but so far it has been too quick and cunning for him. He runs hither and thither, seeking it under piles of empty water gourds and among the loops of anchor rope. He is wasting his energy.
    It is early evening. The light is beginning to change. Suddenly there is a shout from Fishpuke. ‘Hoi! Hoi! Hoi!’
    We stop what we’re doing and stand up to look. Has he spotted land? No, but he has seen a dark shape in the water ahead of us. A whale? There are birds soaring around it and settling sometimes to paddle alongside it. A dead whale? If so, maybe we can cut it up for food. The navigator stands and tiptoes out along one of the hulls to its prow. We pass by the dark object, which turns out to be a floating log, not long dead, with leaves still growing from it, and with a great mat of seaweed hooked on a submerged branch. We can see excitement in the captain’s eyes, and the navigator’s. The captain gives an order for a light anchor to be put over the side, so that he can watch the direction in which the rope is dragged, and make a reading of the current. This will maybe tell us the direction from which the log has drifted. The captain and navigator consult, and appear to agree that our present direction is right and good.
    The cold becomes fiercer as the night comes down. We women go under the hut-like shelter that stands on the deck. I wrap myself in a cloak and huddle myself against one of the posts that holds up the shelter. For warmth, I sleep with a pregnant dog. Her belly is rounded and her teats prominent. I am hopeful for her that we will find land before the pups come. ‘Driftwood and weed,’ say the older ladies. ‘Those are the signs!’ I share their excitement, but at the same time I worry. I hope my dreams tonight will not be about the rock people. I worry about this so much that I cannot sleep. I put my head out of the shelter and see that all the men are awake, and they are busy. Fishpuke is still at the steering oar, while the captain and navigator are muttering their incantations, which will go on all night. The stars are out, and away at the horizon I can see the soundless flash of distant lightning, a storm far out in another part of this vast ocean.
    I go back and lie again with the pregnant bitch. One of the older women is awake too. Quietly, almost below her breath, she sings a dirge for those who have died on our journey and a lament for the homeland left far behind. Her words recall the coconut groves, the warm lagoon, the reef teaming with fish, the mist around the mountain, the billowing clouds and the cloudless days. She recalls how the great chief, my grandfather, died, and how his wicked sons squabbled over the best of his lands. How there was blood spilt. How there was a great council of the people to resolve the dispute without further bloodshed, and how the council found against the older of the two sons. The elder son was the less popular. People said that he was all bombast, and that if he really wished for new land, he should set sail in search of it elsewhere. He brooded on this