As he pulled the net into the boat, he looked over his shoulder. There on the white horizon, well within an hour’s steady paddling, rose the lush green hills of his island home. Coconut palms dotted the white beaches, and waterfall threads glistened against the towering volcano, tendrils of gray smoke rising from its pinnacle, a constant reminder of the knife-edge Oki and his people lived on.

Pulling the fish out of his net and placing them into the woven baskets, Oki thought about tomorrow’s Ritual. The villagers would stand on one side of the common area, the sixteen young virgins on the other, dressed in their whitest kalas, their black hair glistening in the torchlight, their eyes excited and fearful. The witch-doctor would stand between the two groups and utter the ancient prayers. All would bow their heads and listen to the distant rumbling of the volcano, high above them. Then the witch-doctor would lead the procession up the stony path toward the volcano summit. No one would utter a sound and only the wind in the palms and the muffled roar of the surf on the beach would be heard. At the summit, the witch-doctor would listen to the voice of God and one girl would be chosen to appease God’s anger at the people’s sins. Satisfied by the virgin sacrifice, God would then guide the terrible hurricanes away from their tiny island for another year.

And after the sacrifice, they would descend the rocky path rejoicing, beating their log drums and piping their bamboo flutes, their voices loud enough for God himself to hear, and the yearly feast would begin. Oki would spear his fish on the spit and turn them slowly over the crackling fire. Sweet coconut milk would flow, and the rich, fatty smell of roast pig would fill the air. Turtle shells full of ripe mangos, papaya, passion fruit, and pineapple would be passed around, and streams of fruit juice would dribble from smiling mouths as the people danced and celebrated their good fortune and hopes for another year.

Oki had his part in the Ritual, and he was delighted to see his net coming up fuller than usual. Surely, God was pleased at his prayer this morning before he cast off. "I dedicate my catch to You," he’d whispered as he pushed his outrigger into the lagoon. "May it sharpen Your love and blunt Your anger toward us, Your only children."

Yet even as he pulled the last shining fish from the net, Oki heard distant thunder. He looked back at the island, expecting to see flashes of fire erupting from the volcano. Instead, he saw a great bank of black clouds behind the island, rushing toward him. Almost immediately he felt the push of cold wind against his bare chest, and lightning forked onto the island an instant before the clouds obscured it entirely.

Oki held his net loosely in his hands, his heart racing. One moment he was drifting on the gently rolling waters within a short paddle of the only land he’d ever known, and the next he was clutching the gunwales of his tiny craft, being tossed about on immense waves. As he crested the next swell, he looked back again. The island was gone, as was the sun, which shone warm just moments before. Then he was hurled into a deep trough, and a gigantic wave broke overhead, filling his outrigger with water. The baskets overturned and the fish flopped about in the boat. Oki bailed and prayed, not daring to look up, feeling, rather than seeing, the onrush of the next towering swell. Cresting the wave, he looked about. All was dark, the sun was no more, and the rain began to fall from the sky in icy sheets.

Oki dropped the bailing bucket and cried out in fear. "What have I done, God?" he pleaded, his hands clasped together and his eyes shut against the storm, his tears mingling with the salt spray. A moment before he collapsed into weary exhaustion, he thought, Is the ocean nothing more than men’s tears?

Chapter Two

A small fish brushed against his cheek, startling Oki awake. The sky above was the familiar deep blue. He sat up and looked around. In every direction, empty sea met empty sky. His island was nowhere in sight.

He began bailing his outrigger, which had survived the storm with minor damage. The rigger was loose, so he cut off a corner of his net and lashed the rigger securely onto the spar. The ocean rolled quietly, as if it was just another day.

But for Oki, the storm had just begun. His island! He had no idea in which direction it lay. Night would come shortly, and though Oki knew the north star, he didn’t know whether he was north or south of his island. If he followed it, it might lead him even farther from land.

Having been raised on a small island—the only island in the world among the endless seas—he was used to fearing the expanse of ocean which surrounded it. Throughout his life he had heard stories around the fire pit about unwary fishermen or foolish explorers who had lost sight of land, never to return. Oki had shivered even in the warmth of the fire, knowing that he must always keep the island in sight as he fished, for God would not save him if he broke that cardinal commandment.

"It is for our protection," said the witch-doctor. "God warns us to stay close to home. If we are disobedient, we will suffer His wrath."

Oki scanned the horizon. He must have been disobedient—but what had he done? He obeyed the witch-doctor’s commandments and honored the holy days. His own sister had been offered up to God three years ago, and though he had seen the fear and anguish in her eyes, he knew it was God’s will that she represent the islanders in the Ritual.

He racked his brain, cataloging his sins, which though minor, were numerous. Sometimes he would take more than his fair share of food, or forget to wash himself before sleep, and once he had even chewed the forbidden bukari root, which brought on a pleasant stupor. But he had expiated his sin by receiving a single flog from the witch-doctor with the spiky scepter.

"If you had not confessed, you would have received another," said the witch-doctor, squeezing the aloe gel onto Oki’s bloody cuts and gently working it in. "God will forgive you, if you promise to not do it again."

"I promise," said Oki, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, his head bowed.

And he had kept his promise. So now, out here on the empty ocean, he lifted his eyes and prayed, asking what he had done to incur God’s wrath.

But God did not answer Oki; He never did. All communications from God came to the witch-doctor. So it was not with much expectation that Oki prayed, and when the moment passed and God was silent, Oki picked up his paddle. If God had cast him out for his wickedness, it really didn’t matter what he had done; it was obviously bad enough to merit being lost at sea. All he could do now was paddle with all his might, keep his thoughts and hopes focused and show God that he was repentant of the sin—whatever it was—that had merited expulsion from the World.

Perhaps God would allow him to return if he proved himself worthy. Oki looked at the fish in the wicker basket. His net lay in the bow of the boat. He still had his knife in its sheath at his waist. He would not starve. God had been kind enough to see to that. All was not lost. An opportunity had opened up before him. He could still prove himself worthy to join his people once more.

As the sun set, Oki paddled in the direction that seemed best. When the north star appeared, he noted with satisfaction that he had already been rowing in that direction. He had been south of the island when the storm came up. Perhaps it still lay to the north. He chewed a piece of raw fish, his eyes never leaving the north star. I will return home, he promised himself, dipping his paddle rhythmically into the glassy water.

Chapter Three

For three days Oki paddled north. On the afternoon of the third day, the wind began to blow again, and he lifted his sail. Using his paddle as a tiller, his heart lifted, for he felt in the wind at his back the warm breath of God.

Then, toward nightfall, he saw his island! The volcano rose high above the forested slopes. The wind was pushing him straight for the island, and tears sprang from Oki’s eyes as he thanked God.

Just beyond the atoll reef, the wind magically died, and Oki lowered the sail. Many huts stood on the beach inside the placid lagoon. He looked up at the volcano, expecting to see the great waterfall cascading down its lower slopes.

It was not there.

He looked for the familiar rock outcropping called God’s Nose.

It was not there.

As he paddled across the lagoon, he looked for the lodge, big enough for fifty people.

It was not there.

Oki lifted his paddle and scanned the beach. There were many people working on the shore. Someone saw him and shouted, and soon everyone was looking at him. He glided onto the beach, scanning each face, but no one looked familiar. But they greeted him warmly, running to him and pulling him from his outrigger, slapping him on the back, smiling and laughing. They led him toward the common area which surrounded a great pit, in the center of which a bonfire leapt and crackled.

Oki looked around in dumb amazement. Who were these people? Could this be his island? No, there was only one village, one lagoon, one great waterfall, and one Nose of God. Yet they spoke his tongue, smiled like he was one of them, and handed him bowls of fruit and a large saucer of clear, sweet water.

Then the people parted and the witch-doctor appeared. He was older than the witch-doctor of Oki’s island, and fiercer. His eyes burned from under the shadow of his parrot feather headdress, and he held a sharpened scepter, the staff of which was dotted with sharp palm spines, the tips of which were blackened with dried blood. "You have come across the deep waters," he said, pointing a bony finger at Oki.

Oki gulped and nodded.

"You have tested the wrath of God!" shouted the witch-doctor.

Oki hung his head and nodded again.

"And you have survived!" cried the witch-doctor.

Oki raised his head and looked around. The people were smiling. "It is a sign!" cried the witch-doctor as he lifted his scepter high over his head. "Tonight’s Ritual will be accepted!"

Oki smiled. He had not missed it after all! God may have taken him to another island, but he had not missed the Ritual! Tears sprang to Oki’s eyes as he joined the people standing on one side of the fire pit. Darkness came on and great, smoking torches were lit. Someone began chanting an unfamiliar song, and everyone closed their eyes. Oki shut his eyes as well, trying to sing along with the strange melody and odd words.

When they finished and Oki opened his eyes, he saw the sixteen young virgins standing on the other side of the fire, dressed in their whitest kalas. Their eyes shone with fear and excitement, as did the girls’ eyes on Oki’s island.

Oki breathed a sigh of relief. He had survived the ordeal and had been forgiven by God. He would worry about finding his own island tomorrow. Tonight, he would rejoice with this people—so very much like his own—as they offered sacrifice to quell God’s mighty anger and forestall the hurricane.

The witch-doctor led the procession up the mountain. The maw of the fiery volcano was even bigger than on Oki’s island, and the lava below bubbled with great fierceness. Heat rose in great waves, and great gouts of steam wafted up, engulfing the villagers, who stood silently on the cauldron’s lip.

The witch-doctor walked out onto the jutting precipice, lifted his hands heavenward, and prayed. Oki bowed his head. A peace settled over him. He was on an island very much like his own, sharing the sacred Ritual with a people who were very much like his own people. The witch-doctor finished his prayer and turned. He looked down the line of shivering girls. They were all crying, which surprised Oki. He wanted to comfort them, to tell them it would be over in a moment, and they would find peace. But as he stepped forward, hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back. The witch-doctor walked down the line of girls, surveying each one. Their terrified shrieks pierced Oki’s heart. Something was wrong. Didn’t they know their sacrifice would bring safety and God’s blessings? Didn’t they know they were chosen?

The witch-doctor stopped before a young girl, and the others ran back to their parents, who hugged each them as if they had just returned from the dead. The chosen girl stood trembling, tears coursing down her cheeks. Oki saw a depth of terror in her eyes he had never seen before in any human being. "You are chosen," said the witch-doctor, taking the girl’s hand and leading her out onto the precipice.

Oki looked for the witch-doctor’s spiny scepter. It was held by a tall, broad-shouldered man, who stood amongst the other villagers. The witch-doctor began shouting a prayer to God. Oki looked back at the man with the scepter. Give it to him! he pleaded silently, but the man did not move. Then the witch-doctor turned and pointed at the people. "What are we here to do?"

"Sacrifice!" they cried.

"Whom shall we sacrifice?"

"Her!" shouted the people, pointing at the girl, who collapsed in the witch-doctor’s arms. The witch-doctor held her up and looked heavenward. "Thy will be done!"

Suddenly, Oki knew the Ritual had gone terribly wrong. "No!" he shouted, breaking free and rushing toward the precipice. But it was too late. The witch-doctor pushed the girl off the rocky shelf. She fell, screaming, into the volcano’s fiery mouth. Oki fell at the witch-doctor’s feet, crying, "No! No!"

Several men took hold of Oki, raising him up. The witch-doctor frowned. "You killed her!" shouted Oki, his eyes on the bubbling lava hundreds of feet below. The girl’s body was gone. He looked up at the witch-doctor, hatred filling his eyes. "You killed her!"

"You assented to it, as did we all."

"I didn’t know you were going to kill her!"

"How else would we offer sacrifice?" asked the witch-doctor, puzzled.

Oki broke free and grabbed the scepter from the strong man, shoving it into the witch-doctor’s hands. "You’re supposed to flog her, cut her, punish her for our sins. Then you’re supposed to rub aloe on her cuts and receive her back into fellowship. That’s how it’s done!"

"On your island," said the witch-doctor, frowning.

"Yes!" said Oki. "This is wrong!"

"How do you know we’re wrong?" asked the witch-doctor.

"Your scepter! What do you think it’s for?"

The witch-doctor looked the scepter over closely, examining the long, sharp spines coated with dried blood. Then he looked at Oki, darkness in his deep-set eyes.

"This? Why, it is for you."