CH 119
In an attempt to stifle the hurt seeping its way into my chest, I turn away from Wake and take in the room around us.
Every surface gleams with meticulous care, and the faint sound of a recorded narration murmurs in the background, blending seamlessly with the muffled steps of other visitors.
We stop in front of a long display case that immediately grabs our attention. Inside are statues, frozen in time, each one a unique representation of strange and beautiful creatures of the sea. The detail is breathtaking—evidence of the craftsmanship of people who must have spent hundreds of hours carving, shaping, and painting these figures.
Wake leans closer, his shoulders tense and his head tilting slightly, as if seeing the figures from a different angle might unlock some hidden truth. His expression tightens, unreadable but heavy, as his eyes roam from one statue to the next.
The tallest figure commands attention, standing at least two feet high. Its skin is the deep, earthy red of wet clay, and its scales shimmer as though catching an unseen light, reflecting a spectrum of colors that seems to shift with every movement. Beside it is another figure—shorter but no less captivating—with the body of an octopus.
The tentacles are carved with meticulous detail, curling around a base of coral, each sucker visible and lifelike. Next to that, a crocodilian creature looms, its elongated snout filled with jagged teeth. Its torso tapers into a sleek, fish-like tail, the transition between scales and skin so seamless it looks alive.
I step closer, my breath catching. The craftsmanship is uncanny. “I didn’t realize Polynesia had mermaid lore,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper as if speaking louder would break the spell of the display.
Wake gestures to a plaque mounted just below the case. “It’s believed to have been introduced more recently,” he explains, his voice low and contemplative. “Eventually, it was integrated into their existing mythos.” His words are precise, but there’s a distraction in his tone, as though his thoughts are far away.
I nudge him gently, trying to break the heaviness settling between us. “See anyone you know?”
He straightens, crossing his arms as his gaze moves slowly from one figure to the next. “Some look more familiar than others,” he admits after a long pause. “But none are spot-on to any Clan I can think of.”
I scratch my chin, staring at the intricate carvings. The idea sparks in my mind before I even know I’m saying it. “Considering how close Hawai’i is to the South Pacific, it’s entirely possible these statues could be of your ancestors.”
His jaw tightens at the suggestion, and he glances at me briefly before returning his gaze to the display. “Then there’s a reason why I’m here and they aren’t.”
I don’t know how to answer that, and so I don’t try.
“I won’t let that happen to my people,” he says.
The lump in my throat tightens as I watch him. His stance is firm, but there’s a vulnerability in his eyes—a flicker of doubt he won’t voice but can’t fully hide. I reach out and take his hand in mine. His fingers are cool, firm, and strong, but I can feel the tension in them, like a taut bowstring ready to snap.
“We won’t let that happen,” I say softly but firmly, trying to pour as much conviction into the words as I can.
His gaze locks onto mine, and for a moment, the museum fades away—the glow of the exhibits, the whispers of other visitors, the steady hum of air conditioning. It’s just the two of us, standing shoulder to shoulder, bound together by this mission, this fight, and something I can only describe as fate.
He doesn’t say anything, but the way his eyes soften tells me that he understands. That maybe, just maybe, he believes me.
I turn back to the statues, letting my eyes wander over their forms again. There’s something haunting about them, a sadness woven into their beauty. I imagine the hands that carved them, the stories they were meant to tell.
Did the people who made these statues know the creatures they depicted? Were they inspired by fleeting glimpses of something impossible, or were these the last echoes of a history long forgotten?
Wake’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “The craftsmanship is remarkable,” he says, his tone quieter now, almost reverent. “But there’s something…off.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, frowning as I lean closer to the case.
“These figures,” he says, gesturing to the red-skinned creature and then the octopus-bodied one. “They don’t match the proportions or features of any Clan I know. It’s as if they’re hybrids—or distortions.”
I blink, the thought unsettling. “Maybe they’re just interpretations,” I offer. “Like how humans have so many different versions of the same myths.”
He doesn’t respond right away, his gaze lingering on the crocodilian figure. “Or maybe,” he says slowly, “they’re warnings.”
The chill that runs down my spine has nothing to do with the museum’s air conditioning. I glance at him, my pulse quickening. “Warnings about what?”
His expression darkens, and he shakes his head. “Of what happens when mortals interfere in the affairs of gods.”
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