Connected

“Aldar! Aldar!”

What does she want now? I hurried to write a couple more lines:

Loro tells me she’s gone because the volcano willed it. Papa always tells me she left us because she had better things to do on the other side. I don’t blame her. There isn’t much to do around here.

And then slamming my pen and paper on the desk, I stood and stormed my way into the kitchen, trying to make my point as clear as possible.

“Don’t you look at me like that, boy!” Lina scolded, “You know chores must be finished before you play. That has always been the rule. You know it’s very generous for the chief to let you both stay in his house.” She paused to take a breath, “and you’re lucky to have me to take care of you!”

I rolled my eyes. I wouldn’t care if she stopped taking care of me. Actually, I’d prefer it. I did just fine on my own. “I wasn’t playing, Lina, I told you. I was writing.”

“Same thing,” she replied, whipping out a brightly woven washcloth. She was just bitter that I could read and write, and she couldn’t.

I was just turning back around to find my desk when I felt a sharp sting on my neck. Promptly, Lina shoved the offending rag into my fist and pointed at a large, soapy bucket. “Wash. And then you may play.”

I grumbled as loud and long as I could before I ran out of breath and my throat started to tickle. Why do I have to do chores? Loro doesn’t have to!

Angrily, I snatched up the first dirty plate. It nearly flew out of my hand before I could plunge it into the bath. Too much force for such a lightweight thing. A tiny piece of splintering bamboo caught on my pinky as I scrubbed the edges, but I ignored the sting. When the dirty bucket was empty, I rinsed the remaining soapy dishes and dried them with a towel hanging against the wall.

Done. Lina had stepped out temporarily, and I was not going to stick around for her to rope me into another chore. So, I slipped out the door opposite the one I came in and hurried down the hallway back to the study.

But just before I could reach the door, I nearly ran into another boy, just a year younger than me, his dark hair and familiar smile playfully dancing on and around his face. He carried a couple of books in one hand, casually gripping them by the spine, a crumpled piece of notebook paper in the other. “Loro,” I greeted him, studying the crumpled bit of paper, “you know how I feel about wasted pages.”

Loro laughed good-naturedly, “It’s only one piece of paper, Aldar. There are plenty more out there.”

“Yeah, but not on this island.”

Loro shrugged, “Father has been teaching me about countries again...told me if I don’t start taking things seriously, I might not make it to the age of a leader. He said the volcano might swallow me up.”

I rolled my eyes, “Nonsense. You don’t need to know a single thing that goes on outside the island. That’s what you have an ambassador for. My dad knows a lot more about the world than your dad does. That’s how it works.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Loro fingered the paper in his palm. “Have you gotten a letter yet? From your dad?”

I shook my head, and straightened my shoulders in feigned confidence, “No. He’s busy. The chief gave him a pretty heavy assignment this time.” Truth was, I also knew Papa would spend a little time doing some research of his own, gathering new books for our little library, and practicing some of the languages he had picked up during his many years working for Loro’s dad.

But it had been a little longer than usual. I got letters from him at least every month when he was away. Recently, I hadn’t heard from him for three months in a row.

“I’m going to practice some soccer outside. Want to join me?”

I hesitated, glancing at the entrance to the study just past Loro’s shoulder. “I was actually going to do some writing.”

Loro rolled his eyes, “You can’t spend all day locked inside. You’ll die of boredom.”

I sighed. “Okay, maybe just a short game.”

But as soon as we stepped out into the warm, humid air, found our favorite clearing, and set our feet to the ball, time seemed to run just as fast as we did, practically chasing the sun across the sky. We marked our goals in between trees and kicked and ran, occasionally pausing to show off how well we could bounce and balance the ball on knees and shoulders. It wasn’t until Loro’s mom called out to us for dinner that we realized how late it had grown.

All of us ate in the same dining room, Lina, Loro and his little sister, their parents, and myself. I should’ve felt more grateful to be so well cared for by the chief and his family, but really, I just felt bitter that he was the reason my dad was never around. Lina left the table early. She usually did so to get a head start on kitchen clean-up.

In the lull after dinner, it was unusually quiet. Normally by this point, Lina would have called me in to help. But she was oddly silent. I hadn’t seen her since dinner. No use in waiting around. I was going back to the study to retrieve my journal. And take it somewhere I couldn’t be bothered.

The heavy curtain covering the doorway was drawn partially aside to reveal a single light shining inside. I slid my fingers into the soft fabric, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath as I passed through. The aroma of aged cedar and leather-bound volumes wrapped me up in a welcoming embrace. I knew the shelving well, an import Papa had requested after one of his long trips off the island. We didn’t have many luxuries here. Not even Loro lived much like a prince. But sitting in the study made me feel like a king, surrounded by the details Papa had come to adore, and the tales of the countries he frequented. It was my only way of accompanying him in his travels, flipping through the pages of these intriguing—

I opened my eyes to take in the familiar view but instead found the shelves half emptied. Gasping, I discovered, to my horror, an intruder sitting in my chair, with a stack of books carelessly piled on the floor beside her. And in her hands, she held captive the most important book of them all, sifting through its pages like an awful critic.

“What do you write about?” Lina asked from the chair, not bothering to look up.

“It’s none of your business,” I growled, balling my hands into tight fists at my side.

Lina flipped another page over, studying the hand-written characters. “It is not good to keep secrets,” she said. “You must teach me to read them.”

Something was boiling violently in my stomach, threatening to set fire to the room like the volcano that ruled our island. The heat rose and rose, burning my cheeks and setting my eyes ablaze. “I wouldn’t teach you how to read if you paid me,” I spat through clenched teeth. She only wanted to learn so she could snoop into my business, and steal away the little freedom I could claim as my own.

“It is not good to keep secrets,” Lina repeated. “If you will not teach me, I will not let you keep the books.”

Immediately, I lunged forward, aiming for the journal in her lap. She stood, holding it above her head, well out of reach. I closed my eyes and desperately willed myself to be taller. When I’m older, I won’t let her boss me around so much. She’ll see.

Lina shook her head and gave me nothing but a pitiful huff before walking out of the room, journal in hand. I followed cautiously, waiting for just the right moment to catch her off guard and steal back my most prized possession.

“Who taught you how to read and write?” Lina asked as she continued to walk, her back still turned to me.

Why are you asking? You already know the answer. I refused to play her game and remained silent, but continued to trail behind. I could not let that book out of my sight.

Lina continued, undaunted, “Your dad is foolish to raise your hopes. It will do you no good on this island. And you won’t be the next ambassador. The volcano will not allow it. You are not fit for the role.”

The volcano has nothing to do with it. I was so sick of her stubborn adherence to tradition. My dad was a brilliant man who was discovering all the wonderful secrets the world has to offer, secrets this island has not ever had access to.

Internally, I stewed over her words and balled them up in my gut and imagined myself hurling them right back at her, right in her face. My frustration started to cloud my vision and my attention lapsed, and before I knew it, Lina was ripping pages out of my journal, one-by-one.

I shook off the haze, quick as I could, and sprung forward once more. We had reached the wide brick oven in the kitchen, which still had a few embers glowing from dinner. Planting herself firmly between me and the oven, she crumpled each page and chucked it into the coals. Each immediately burst into flames, turning blackened ashes into a raging fire.

“No!” I screamed, over and over, throwing myself against her back, grabbing wildly with my fingers. “Stop! Please stop!” But still, she flung my writings into the hungry flames, completely ignoring my repeated screams. Sobs began to shake my chest. Tears ran down my face and neck, soaking the thin collar of my shirt.

But it was no use. In moments, the journal was gone, pages and all. Pages full of visits from my dad, the stories he told me, the things he taught me. The first few pages even contained my very first attempts at writing, large letters scribbled in a shaky hand.

When all was done, Lina left me to mourn over lost memories. I screamed, and kicked and punched the oven until my fists were scraped and sore. And then I dropped myself to the ground and took out the rest of my anger on the floor, weakly slapping the rough stone with the unscathed palms of my hands. Finally, I let them fall to the floor with the rest of my body and rolled over onto my back. My palms ached, my knuckles ached, my wrists ached, and my head felt like it was full of soapy dishwater.

It was gone. I would never get it back. And my dad was gone. What if I never got him back either? The only thing I could do would be to preserve all the progress he made. It simply could not be lost. It didn’t matter if Lina destroyed every book in that library. One day I would make sure to replace them ten-fold. And for every book she removed, she would have to pay.