Free Island's End by Padma Venkatraman

throat feels dry, as though there is no water left inside me.
    I hear a voice through the gloom.
    Why are you here?
    I shiver.
    Why are you here?
    “To find the insect-eating plant,” I whisper.
    Why do you want to find it?
    Closing my eyes, I picture that strange, beautiful creature again—the pink-red of its pitcher-shaped leaves, the sweet-smelling juice inside. It feels so long ago when I first saw it, my spirit filled with no more than curiosity and wonder. “I want to learn the plant’s message and carry its healing waters with me,” I say.
    Why?
    In my mind I see again, as from a distance, the huge communal hut shrinking, all my people coming together as one person. The image calms me. “I hope its message will guide us into a safe future. And it is my special medicine plant, whose powers will help me care for my people, whom I love.”
    If you act lovingly, the earth spirit will let you go. Stop kicking and slapping at Tarai-mimi. Why are you hurting her?
    I shake my head, confused. Then I realize that in the last few moments, while being still, I sank no deeper into the mud.
    With all my strength, I try to control my body’s urge to fight its way out. Carefully, I feel for the rattle around my neck and move it back and forth to calm my spirit. The crocodiles, too, seem calmed by the sound. They stop staring at me and instead gaze up at the moon. A sudden gust of wind cools the sweat on my forehead. I lift my chin up to the night sky and breathe in deeply.
    Listening to the watery sound of the rattle, I imagine it is not mud around my body but a stream. Instead of struggling against the earth’s grip, I pretend I am wading through shallow water. The mud squelches with every movement, but its hold on me weakens.
    Slowly, slowly, I get closer to the edge of the stinking pit. Just beyond the gleaming mud, I see the dark shape of a mangrove tree. Its spidery roots help keep the trunk above the swampy ground, and I hope they are strong enough to hold me too.
    I reach out and grab the roots. Little by little I pull myself up. My fingers curl higher around the roots, then around the lowest part of the trunk. At last, hugging tightly to the tree, I heave my body out of the pit.
    More mangrove trees grow in the swampy ground ahead. I crawl deep into the tangle of gnarled roots. When I dare to look back through the darkness, the crocodiles are gone and the sticky mud is no more than a faint gleam.
    But my bags of food and water are lost—they must have slipped off my shoulder and fallen into the pit. Thankfully, my medicine bag still hangs at my waist—although it is covered with mud. I pull open the drawstring and see by the moonlight that squeezes through the mangrove branches that everything inside is clean. Bowing my head, I say a grateful prayer to Biliku-waye.
    My stomach growls with hunger as I lie back in the nest of mangrove roots. They poke into my back and a thick mat of thirsty mosquitoes settles down on top of me. Hearing a rustle in the leaves overhead, I look up to see a viper slithering up the branch. Yet despite the snake, the mosquitoes and my hunger, I smile in triumph. After making my way safely past the crocodiles and getting out of the sucking mud alive, it feels like nothing could stop me from finding the insect-eating plant. I hug my own strong body, tired but happy to be alive. And although it is uncomfortable, I fall asleep among the roots.

18

    T he next morning, I wake up late, feeling almost as tired as when I went to sleep. The sun has climbed into the middle of the sky and the heat has chased the mosquitoes away. The viper, too, is gone. But my stomach is so empty it hurts, and my tongue is as dry as a withered leaf. I desperately need a drink of water.
    I poke in between the mangrove roots and pull up a handful of wet mud. Holding it above my mouth, I squeeze hard. Brown water drips onto my lips but it tastes so bad that I spit it out.
    Looking around me, I try to decide what to do