No. Nothing. Nothing on a really tall chair; a chair with very long legs; up to the sky, which was empty. And down fell fragrance; fragrance of flowers , although there were no flowers; before there were flowers there was just this fragrance , which fell, falling. Into dust; like dusty books; but there were no books, not even the sound or whisper of words; just a fine grit on which fell this fragrance of future flowers. And dimly, in the foreground, far from Papatea in the distance, in the nearness, out of focus, coming into focus, something, not quite someone. Something one could almost grasp, hold in one’s arms, share warmth with, almost. Standing on the earth, not the white earth of Papatea in the distance, but here in the center of things, as it were, in the center of the blue-black sea, on this black sandy place, standing suddenly, like standing rocks, a red jet of fire standing. And falling into small stones like the coral of my great-grandmother’s floor, like river stones arranged around her feet by a child, like scattered black boulders along the strand waiting, waiting always. Then the mountains, long-lived family of islands. Older than us, older than our lines, of which we are a part, those mountains on which we wash, and are washed away from, clinging. We open our eyes to, and close our eyes on. As we, or they, those two, I mean, those two ones met in a green field, a clearing in the forest, a clearing that moves from place to place. A girl walks from the trees into the field and picks up some dust. And through the sugarcane a boy comes to her with a sugarcane flower on his ear. Those were her parents before her parents, the first parents; and before the people from Papatea came from Papatea in the distance. We might have been like those two, those times before time began; a fragrance, dust, a red jet of fire standing, a field wandering. Who knows? But for Papatea in the distance; so far away no one knew it was there; although we’d heard it was there. Heard it from our most distant relations. The ones we only meet at sea after many days, the Papatea by Dan Taulapapa McMullin Then the mountains, long-lived family of islands. Older than us, older than our lines, of which we are a part, those mountains on which we wash, and are washed away from, clinging. We open our eyes to, and close our eyes on. cover feature new native writing 44 WLT MAY–AUGUST 2017 WORLDLIT.ORG 45 photo : george moga ones who only meet us at sea after many days, they told us, because someone further off told them at sea. And that was another fragrance. A strange fragrance; the fragrance of Papatea, although we didn’t know its name then. So we called it Papatea, the white land, as distant as the sky. Nameless or named, it fell like a dust among us. Her brothers who would be taken by it didn’t know it then, they only knew its fragrance. Her name was Fasiefu (which means piece of dust). Her parents named her after the first instance of the dust of Papatea coming to us in whispers and sickness. She had a brother; his name was Maluapapatea, the Shade of Papatea, because during his life the shadow of Papatea began to fall on us. Malu was his nickname. Fasi was her nickname. When Fasi was a girl, Malu was a small boy, a toddler she watched over while her mother was on the mountainside and her father was at sea. When Malu was a small boy he saw his reflection in a pool of water filled with cockles in the black sloping rock that went into the green sea near their home. The water was still. Looking at it, Malu saw his golden face, his wide black eyes, his long hair glowing red in the sun, but he did not know who he was looking at, and ran back up the sloping rock to their home in the trees. Fasi...